


Handing Tickets Out for God

by di0brando



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Fix-It of Sorts, Groundhog Day, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Siblings, Slow Burn, Time Loop, it's about the yearning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/di0brando/pseuds/di0brando
Summary: "Hope is the rock on which we build our future. Know that you are not alone. Know that you are loved."In which every time Rook dies, he forgets the day's events and time reverses for the Seed siblings. The good news is that he seems to have more patience than they have stubbornness. An admittedly frustrating path to a better Hope County.
Relationships: Male Deputy | Judge/Jacob Seed, Male Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Male Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed
Comments: 71
Kudos: 396





	1. Chapter 1

It all begins with John.

Although if one were to ask him, he’d say that the beginning always felt more like a drawn-out, melodramatic finale.

The plan had been unorthodox from the very start, but John has to hand it to his followers; they’re not adverse to improvisation. Following their nasty dog fight and John’s last-minute jump from the plane, the Deputy took the bait and followed him into the woods, where John’s men currently surround him.

John has to admit that the Deputy makes for a very pretty picture; shoulders heaving with weighty breath. A split lip. Dark hair falling forward with strands touching his brow. John smirks—though he’s out of breath, too—when the symphony of clicking rifles cuts through the quiet of the forest.

“Joseph didn’t want it to end this way, Deputy,” John laments with a touch of pity. It’s not even that he _dislikes_ the wayward sheep, but Wrath just won’t stop until someone puts a bullet in him, and John doesn’t particularly want to die. “If it were up to me, I’d give you one more chance,” John assures.

It’s not a lie; Wrath has a lot going for him. He would be a powerful asset, even with those tired eyes of his. If John were to _confess_ to his brother, he would go so far as to say that the Deputy is beautiful, and worthy of something _more_. Something more than all of this—than what the ungrateful denizens of Hope County have given to their newfound savior.

But what Joseph doesn’t know won’t hurt him. John will keep the image of the Deputy’s resilient expression in the back of his mind until the Collapse, and maybe even thereafter. John will remain pleased to know that the Deputy didn’t make it back out of Holland Valley. The Deputy will have given his final hours to John, and while John doesn’t quite feel _sated_ , he does feel proud of the fact that his ink will remain on Rook’s still corpse. His siblings won’t have gotten the privilege of seeing this spitfire glare in the face of a dozen guns, giving away nothing.

“Deputy,” John says with finality, and only when one of his men pulls a trigger does he realize that he doesn’t even know his enemy’s real name. Something in John’s gut twists, and time slows to a crawl. John’s finger twitches imperceptibly on the trigger of his pistol. There’s the beginning spark of anger directed towards the follower that shot without permission.

Neither birds nor angels sing as Wrath collapses to the forest floor. John is going to--

John bolts upward, gasping for air as if someone had a wire wrapped around his throat. He touches his forehead, as if _he’s_ the one that’s been shot; he swallows past a dry mouth and realizes that he’s in his room, back at the lodge. Was he injured when his plane went down? Did he not even realize it? John looks at the clock on his bedside table—it reads 8:38 in the morning.

John staggers out of bed, pulls on a button-up shirt, and meanders out into the hallway. It seems odd that Joseph isn’t here to greet him, if he really had been injured. Not to mention congratulate him for finally offing the biggest threat to the Project. That aside, John vaguely notices that he wears no bandages and bears no bruises. One of his guards greets him as he heads downstairs.

“Boss,” he says. He’s nondescript; John has no idea what his name is.

“What’s been done with the Deputy’s body?” John asks, rubbing at the side of his head. The guard has the nerve to look confused.

“...I’m sorry, sir?” John feels a flicker of impatience.

“The Deputy! Does the Father know about him? Did my men leave his body in the woods?” That would be poor form, surely. Joseph would have a cow.

“Last I heard, the Sinner just took out another silo. Haven’t heard about another sighting since last night, sir.”

“I….Right. Nevermind,” John dismisses, heading for the kitchen. When he checks his phone, he sees two unanswered text messages. The date in the corner is…

Alright, then John must have envisioned the entire ordeal in his sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had an unnervingly real dream. His nightmares in college were more or less the same. Maybe if he’s lucky, his dream will end up _meaning_ something. He may succeed in capturing the Deputy soon, even if he doesn’t kill him.

Regardless, the overall vividness makes John clumsy as he puts on a pot of coffee. If he stares too hard at the glass panes of his cabinets, he can make out the stony, tired face of the Deputy. And if he thinks too hard about it, it bothers him. John diverts his attention back to his phone as his coffee brews.

‘Are you going to fucking sleep all day?’ Jacob texted him at 8. John snorts despite his irritation and replies.

‘I promise that you’re the only freak that can function at 4am.’

The other text is from Faith. It reads, ‘I hope you aren’t keeping the Deputy all to yourself now. He might be having too much fun.’ John doesn’t even want to unpack that statement right now, albeit it’s not like he _isn’t_ having fun with the Deputy. When John takes his first sip of coffee, he blames the heat in his cheeks on the beverage.

The Father has a task for him—a mission—and John isn’t going to remain idle and win by proxy just because he likes the way the Deputy’s voice sometimes turns light and amused over the radio. John is in the pilot’s seat, and he’s going to take responsibility for the Deputy’s end since apparently the snake is _too good_ for the salvation and eternal prosperity that Joseph promises.

John barely takes note of his phone dinging with a notification; he expects it’s another reply from Jacob, but he almost chokes on his coffee when he sees a picture coming in from some VIP’s number. It’s a selfie of the Deputy, somewhat blurry in frame, standing in front of some anti-Eden graffiti. The spray paint reads, ‘Seeds can eat my ass.’ Another text pops up in the chat window.

‘Only if they ask nicely,’ it says. John’s brow twitches with frustration. He pointedly ignores the message and tries not to type too harshly with his thumbs.

‘How did you get this number?’ Three dots appear for a second before the Deputy’s reply comes through.

‘You don’t make VIP’s use passwords? Jacob would be so disappointed.’

‘He won’t be if I capture you before you get across the river.’ John swallows. The three dots appear again. The next message pops up.

‘Is that a promise?’ John can just picture the Deputy rubbing at his bloodshot eyes and grinning before chucking the phone into the nearest pile of debris. Before John knows it, he’s pulling on his coat and boots, hurrying out the front door. A couple of his followers ask about his destination, but John doesn’t answer them as he ducks into his car.

It’s arguably predictable, but John spends the afternoon playing cat and mouse with the Deputy; more often than not, he catches himself thinking that it isn’t so _bad_. The Deputy will sometimes respond to his promises of deliverance over the radio—sometimes he’ll send him text messages before tossing a burner phone. He’ll give John just enough of a lead to catch up to him, only to vanish again. And even though the Deputy could easily leave Holland Valley at any given time, for some reason he just...doesn’t.

John wonders if it would be wrong of him to let the game carry on for another day, or perhaps another week. He could spin his motives any way he likes, even though he’s sure that Joseph would see right through him and give him that ‘I’m disappointed in you’ look. Resolutely, John isn’t going to let the Deputy think that he has the upper hand for too long. No matter how _entertaining_ the whole shebang might be, John can’t put off the inevitable.

Good vanquishing evil; the just and the righteous trampling the blasphemous rebels because they lack faith. John ultimately believes in Joseph’s cause, thus he ultimately believes in the Deputy’s death. And yet--

‘You have to love them, John.’

It’s somewhat antithetical. To love the physical Antichrist even though you have to wrap your tainted hands around its neck and choke out its resistance. If Joseph does end up asking about John’s roundabout methods, he’ll just tell his brother that he was putting more time into _loving_ the Deputy. ‘Oh, but Joseph, I only wanted to prod at him and decide whether or not he’s truly beyond our help. Was that too prideful of me?’

Fortunately, John doesn’t have to think of worst-case scenarios any longer, since he finds himself staring at a haggard-looking Rook.

John had given chase after one of his faithful jack-knifed the Deputy’s vehicle in the middle of a main road. John watched it happen—watched the driver’s head bash into his steering wheel, and watched the Deputy stumble unevenly out of his own ‘borrowed’ truck. John had jumped from his car, not bothering to check on his injured follower (if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that the Deputy will escape from his grip even with only a few seconds to spare).

The Deputy’s labored breathing and hurried, twig-snapping steps lead John to the riverbank; the border that separates them from the Whitetail Mountains. Rook has a split lip again, and John feels a brief wave of _something_ as it reminds him of the dream he had. Maybe it’s led him here. Rook finds his footing and smiles at John in spite of his wheezing. Something must be wrong with his ribs.

“You said you’d get me before I crossed the river,” the Deputy huffs. John spreads his arms amicably, though he doesn’t put his pistol away.

“And here I am,” he replies. He can just barely make out the Deputy’s breaths over the rushing cacophony of the river. The Deputy’s eyes narrow.

“Too bad I’m gonna make it across.”

The Deputy—what is his name? The Deputy smirks and turns, his boots shifting in the pliable soil. John, for some reason, feels like he’s frozen yet again. It’s like his watch stops ticking as Rook leaps down, feet-first into the river. John doesn’t know why his gut tells him that it’s a bad idea on Rook’s part until it’s too late. Rook lands in the water. Hard. His leg catches on something beneath the surface, and he cries out in pain. John can only take one step forward before he has to watch the Deputy slip back. There’s a gross ‘crack’ as the Deputy’s skull meets a rock.

John can’t even process the absurdity of it all before he’s--

Bolting upward in bed with sweat on his forehead and a lump in his throat. John’s hands twine in his hair and tug so hard that it hurts. The clock reads 8:38. John can only focus on getting his bearings; he sits in bed for a few minutes and watches a tree branch sway minutely outside the nearest window. He closes his eyes, takes a final breath, and reaches for his phone. Just another...insanely vivid dream. He has a text from Jacob.

‘Are you going to fucking sleep all day?’

John’s heart drops. He answered this text in his dream, he _knows_ that he did. He also read Faith’s message. John tries to do some problem solving, so he texts Jacob something different.

‘Have I been sleeping for long?’ He asks his brother. Maybe he’s been out of it for longer than he thought; maybe he woke up once earlier this morning, went back to sleep, and had one of those nightmares that pick up from where they left off. Jacob’s reply comes through.

‘Well, you’re up before 10 for once, so I guess not.’ John tosses his phone onto the covers in disbelief. He almost wants to joke about it, but he remembers the Deputy talking to him over the radio for the entire afternoon. He remembers which roads he took in order to head him off. He remembers thinking about what he’d be eating for dinner, right before Rook--

John nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone dings, and when he turns it over, he wants to shout. The thumbnail is a picture of Rook. Three seconds pass.

‘Only if they ask nicely,’ appears on the screen. John denies the shaking in his fingers as he unlocks his phone and responds.

‘Did you take a VIP’s phone?’ He asks. Three dots. Reply.

‘Yeah. Not like he was really using it. Who the hell only has three contacts?’

Briefly, John considers diving under the covers and going back to sleep.

‘I don’t suppose you feel like turning yourself in to confess today.’ John types.

‘Damn, I can’t. Got a flat tire.’ Paired with a frowning emoji.

‘Then I’ll have to come get you.’

John doesn’t wait to see what the reply is. He’s flying out of his room and sending a demand to his men before he knows it. Over the radio, he gets information from his men not far from Fall’s End—apparently the road to the east was the Deputy’s last known location.

The ranch guards are visibly surprised when John practically sprints down the porch steps and to his car, but John doesn’t offer them an explanation. Instead, he barks orders; all available personnel will be following him to help track down Wrath.

It’s prophetic, John reminds himself as he jams his key in the ignition. It has to be. The dreams meant something; in the first one, he jumped in his plane and let his anger get the best of him. That plan was doomed from the start with the haphazard formations and unexpected plane usage courtesy of the Deputy. In the second dream, he joked around too much and allowed the Deputy to have too much wiggle room. The absurdity of them combined was to be a red flag for John, warning him not to lose focus.

Today, John does not lose focus, and he’s arguably _too_ focused. His impromptu convoy is cutthroat and dangerous, and the Deputy’s former playfulness seems to vanish as realizes how severe John is. All of the fun little detours that the Deputy took in John’s dream prove to be fruitless for him as John remembers the routes and chokes them off with jeeps and men on ATV’s.

As John steps out of his car to watch his men surround their coveted sinner in the middle of an orchard, he forgets to feel smug. The Deputy is less like a panicked deer and more like one of Jacob’s wolves, unhappy and looking like he’s been tricked for some reason. Let down. Maybe the voice in John’s head—the one that sounds just like Joseph—is right. Maybe he’s been letting the Deputy have too much fun in the Valley. Maybe his words were always too familiar over the radio.

It can’t be helped, John surmises. Whether or not it was a game, it has to come to an end. The dreams he had opened up an opportunity, and thus they will open the gates of Eden. Joseph will be proud, the Project will continue to flourish, and John will have one less thing to worry about.

One less bruised, battered, strung-out looking thing. One less thing turning to look at him with mid-afternoon sunlight glowing orange on his sweat-slick cheekbones.

The Deputy—John should ask Joseph what his name is—has the nerve to give him a resigned little chuckle. His brow creases but those pink-rimmed eyes refuse to lose their inherent stubbornness. He refuses to leave without a bang.

“Guess you weren’t kidding about picking me up,” the Deputy tries, perhaps somewhat sad. John actually intends to respond, but from his peripheral, he sees one of his men raising his gun. John’s eyes widen and he turns to see that it’s the same follower that shot the Deputy in his first dream.

“I didn’t order you to--!” John exclaims as soon as the shot rings out. His eyes widen when they catch the sight of the Deputy’s head snapping back, blood bursting from the back of his skull. John’s fists tighten and his boots twist hard in the dirt.

“--Shoot!” John yells upon waking. His palms sting and the inside of his cheek hurts from where he’s bitten a hefty chunk out of it. His chest heaves but he ignores his breathing in favor of scrambling for the glass of water at his bedside. He feels sweaty, and tired, and gross. If all he’s done is sleep, there isn’t much to fucking show for it. It’s like he hasn’t slept in three days.

8:38 in the morning.

‘Are you going to fucking sleep all day?’

John watches the clock roll over until the Deputy’s text pops up on his phone screen. He doesn’t have to look at it to know what it says. He resists the childish urge to scream into his pillow. Maybe he should try a different approach. Maybe there’s some reverse psychology happening here and he’s just supposed to be taking it easy. This arguably makes more sense than running himself ragged in a wild goose chase, so John ignores his text messages and gets out of bed, ready to make his day into something more controllable.

As it turns out, the day is mostly uneventful. John listens to a few confessions, goes over paperwork for ammunition stock, and performs a general maintenance check on his plane. Aside from the nagging paranoia playing on loop in his head, John feels productive and more at peace. His muscles and eyes are tired for some reason, but the feeling is negligible in comparison to a chaos-free afternoon.

Chaos-free until the Deputy chimes in over the radio, at least.

“I didn’t think you were the type to ignore a good text, John. Especially if it gives you the chance to talk about _Lust_.”

John’s spine goes ramrod straight, and before he can think better of it, he’s leaping off of his hangar work bench and grabbing for the radio. He can _hear_ Jacob calling him Pavlov’s fucking dog as he jams his thumb to the talk button.

“Do you need instant gratification from everyone you contact, Deputy? That sounds mighty _greedy_.” John finds himself smiling, and his smile only widens when the Deputy doesn’t hide his laughter by leaving off the talk button.

“And isn’t it _rude_ to leave me hanging? What if I want to confess?” Rook replies.

“I think that’s highly unlikely. But really, Deputy, do you have something you’d like to tell me?”

There’s a moment of silence in which John grips the radio tightly. His glare softens as the seconds tick by; his hangar door is wide open and he watches wildflowers and distant trees swaying in the gentle wind. A butterfly lands on a can of paint near the doorway, and it reminds him that he needs to reply to Faith’s message from this morning. As soon as John worries that Rook left him hanging, the conversation continues.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this. But I was kind of hoping you’d be open to an idea.”

The words are so _different_ that they throw John for a loop. Most importantly, they sound honest, without an ounce of Rook’s usual blasé sarcasm. For once, John doesn’t have a witty response. Rook seems to take the lack of one as an invitation to continue.

“I know you’re just going to fucking laugh, so let’s go ahead and get it over with. I just figured I should try, y’know, because I’m running out of ideas. I want to--”

The noise that cuts in over the radio turns into deafening, garbled static—like the receiver can’t process all of it at once, so it fizzles into a disaster. John can only make out two distinct noises; a cut-off, pained shout from Rook, and the thick shattering of glass. The rumbling lasts another second before it all cuts out completely, Rook’s thumb having let go of his radio. John stares down at his trembling hand with a baffled expression. John is about to call Rook’s name over the line again, but before he can swallow--

“Fuck!” John shouts upon waking, not even bothering to check the clock. He stumbles out of bed, tripping over the sheets that tangle around his feet. He snarls, rips a hole through the bedding, and swipes the lamp off the bedside table, listening to it break against the wall.

“Jesus!” John exclaims, running his hands through his hair and clawing his nails down his cheeks with frustration. “What the fuck is your problem!” He isn’t sure whether he’s talking to Rook, himself, or God. He pulls himself from the carpet and walks half-blind into his bathroom. In the mirror, he sees a basket case that hasn’t slept in four days—wild hair, wilder eyes, and red lines trailing down to his jaw. He’s sweated through his boxers and for the first time in weeks he’s genuinely craving whiskey.

John’s eyes widen at his reflection when the realization hits him like a ton of bricks. He spins on his heel and rushes out into the hallway and down the stairs, his bare feet pounding on the polished wood. He ignores his guards’ concern completely and swings around the corner into the dining room to eye the liquor cabinet with scrutiny.

It’s completely full, and more importantly, it’s locked. Jacob has the key. The case’s doors are made of glass, so it’s not like John can’t break it open if he wanted to, but the whole point of keeping the cabinet in the first place is to steel himself despite temptation. Joseph wants to watch him say, ‘here are my sins; I can look at them but I don’t need to humor them anymore.’

And some days have been difficult. Knowing that the cabinet is here and full of Fireball is maddening when the Resistance tests the Valley too harshly, but John hasn’t opened it once since he bought the lodge. He hasn't been drinking. That's not the explanation. John eyes the padlock one more time, glares at a guard for being nosy, and heads back upstairs to his room. Ignoring the shaking in his hands, he throws himself down on the carpet and grabs his phone.

‘Do you take anything to help you sleep?’ John texts Jacob, ignoring the messages from earlier. It takes a few moments for Jacob to respond, and John drags the bottom of his foot back and forth across the carpet while he waits.

‘No. Why?’ Is Jacob’s reply and John doesn’t really know where to go from here.

‘Shit dreams.’ Is all John can think of. He doesn’t want to insult Jacob by whining about his own inability to sleep; his brother has it worse. John bites back a frustrated huff when his screen lights up with an incoming call.

“Yes?” He answers, and Jacob may as well bowl over him and whatever he was going to say.

“Have you not been sleeping well? I have a doctor at the Vet Center.” Jacob’s voice is gruff and awkward but his held-back concern is endearing. It makes John feel a love that he’s been starving for since foster care system ripped them apart.

“Jacob, I have plenty of doctors, it’s not slim pickings over here.”

“I don’t want them putting you on anything too crazy.” The underlying implication: ‘I don’t want you getting hooked on prescription pills.’ John sighs.

“I just,” John glares at his bedroom window, “don’t you meditate or drink tea or something stupid? Five-hundred push-ups before nine?” Jacob doesn’t laugh in response but John can picture him smirking indulgently.

“Black tea. I don’t meditate. Don’t sleep much, either, though. But one of us should be able to function normally, and since it won’t be me or Joe, it may as well be you.”

“Faith sleeps just fine as far as I know, and she doesn’t even touch the Bliss,” John grumbles with a bit of envy.

“Yeah? And we’re not Faith. What are you dreaming about.” Jacob is definitely demanding an answer, not asking for one. John rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Fucking drama queen.

“I don’t know,” John answers honestly. “I’m just so tired, and it’s like...it’s prophetic. Like my subconscious is telling me I’m doing something wrong.” John pauses. “Maybe Joseph is getting to me.” John regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth because he can _hear_ Jacob getting out of a chair and pacing harshly down a hallway.

“Joe is full of shit, you aren’t going to Hell,” Jacob says with determination, and John isn’t going to touch that with a ten foot pole, so he tries to divert Jacob’s frustration.

“Don’t—that’s not what I mean. Jacob, don’t even tell him we talked about this; I’m fine.”

There’s judgmental silence waiting for John and John tilts his head back and sighs.

“I’ll tell you if I’m _not_ fine, how about that? Cross my little heart.”

“Hm. One day at a time, baby brother.”

Yeah, but that’s just what John is having trouble with.

In the evening, John sits by the fireplace, drinking black tea even though he hates how bitter it is. He doesn’t admit it out loud, but anything—even the tea—is worth a shot at this point. The date on the calendar hasn’t changed, but John knows in his bones that it’s been four days and this is the first time he’s been able to watch the sun set past the trees.

Warily, John takes another sip and hopes for the best. There’s an excited bit of optimism rising within him, thinking that maybe he’ll be able to sleep through the night and carry on to another normal day; no weird dreams or wild experiences that _feel_ like dreams. No Deputy, no banter with the Deputy, no car chases, no plans gone awry.

John’s phone dings and he idly takes it out of his pocket, assuming it’s another check-in from Jacob. His breath hitches when he sees a text from the same number that the Deputy used this morning.

‘No texts, no radio calls, no broadcasts. How do you feel about surprise visits?’

John feels heated, flushed with frustration and shame as if he can will the Deputy back into the Henbane River with his mind. He briefly contemplates texting Faith, begging her to come drag him back and feed him to a Judge bear. Anything to keep him from plaguing John’s mind any longer.

John texts back a simple, ‘Don’t.’

A faint ‘ping’ comes from the front porch followed by a muffled, “Shit!”

The guards stationed in the yard all respond to the noises in kind; shouted orders overlap each other and John knows that they’re all surrounding the Deputy. And it’s so _wrong_ , John can’t help but think—so wrong because Rook is stealthy. He’s smart. Why wouldn’t the phone be on silent? Why would he take the back porch? They’ve been doing this same song and dance for over a month now, so John recognizes the sheer terrible _luck_ of it all. It’s almost _staged_ in a way to make them both fail.

It’s like God is maneuvering Rook with his own scheming hand, punishing him.

Yet Rook seems oblivious to the punishment—John can’t hear him clearly beyond the doors but he can tell that he’s joking about something as the guards all flick off the safety of their arms. John closes his eyes, pained, and when he hears glass break against the floor a split second before a gun goes off, he knows he’s dropped his drink.

John neither screams nor jumps when he wakes up on day five. He stares at the ceiling, and clarity comes alongside the inevitable text from the Deputy.

Rook’s not the one being punished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved little meta ideas like 'video game protag doesn't seem to die ever' etc. and I wanted to play around with something similar! This game and this fandom means a lot to me even though I've come in kind of late; I hope this fic community hasn't thinned out Too much since new dawn released. Please let me know what you think so far! Also John is a lot of fun to write omg...
> 
> Kudos are wonderful, and comments absolutely make my day. Thanks for popping in so far :3c


	2. Chapter 2

At least ten days pass—each day, John attempts to learn something new or take charge and stay proactive. He attempts to keep notes about certain patterns, but he quickly realizes that his notebook will become clean and empty after every reset. He also spends hours at a time hunched over his laptop looking for answers; reading articles about people who claim to have vivid déjà vu or lucid dreams. Of course none of them come remotely close to describing the exhaustion and anger that John feels now.

Overall, John has made seemingly little progress, but he has confirmed that some text messages and conversations are inevitable if he carries out a particular routine. Jacob, Faith, and the Deputy all send out specific text messages between 8 and 9, and John always wakes up at 8:38; never a minute sooner, and never a minute later.

Certain replies to Rook or Jacob will garner very specific and repeating answers. Some of his followers will greet him the same way each day no matter how he looks or behaves. And never once has John contacted Joseph.

It’d be _problematic_ to tell Joseph about his issues, to say the least. To imply to Joseph that he’s spiraling to a certain degree. Because it’s not as if John _isn’t_ spiraling. He’s aware that his control is tipping—the tight and unpleasant tension is clenching just behind his rib cage. He’s thrown vases, shouted at guards, and he’s even told Rook to fuck off over the radio. The cracks in his armor inevitably widen whenever the sun comes up.

Despite the pain, John doesn’t want to turn to Joseph; he doesn’t want to be the helpless brother that has to go crying for help. Not since Joseph’s already seen him at rock bottom. Not to mention his current position in the Project is tumultuous at best. He’s walking on a tight rope to ensure that Joseph is pleased with his actions, and he doesn’t want to risk losing all of the ground that he’s gained over the past year.

In the best case scenario, Joseph will fret over him, praying and coming over to eye the liquor cabinet and give him that ‘oh, poor John’ look. At worst, Joseph will strip him of his title and finally decide that he’s unfit to keep command of Holland Valley. The very idea makes John feel nauseated.

Sometimes he asks for vague advice from Jacob just to make him feel better—and he does feel better when Jacob offers his soft yet stilted guidance, never impatient or annoyed with John’s bullshit questions. Tiny comforts aside, the isolating ache of it all is starting to creep up around John’s throat. He can’t tell anybody anything; it’s all too long-winded and incomprehensible. Even if someone were to believe him, it’s not as if they’d know more about the looping than he does.

And so John is alone in this.

The Deputy continues to find inventive ways to die. He’s been caught in an explosion. He’s fallen from a radio tower. He’s been hit by a truck. He’s been shot once more while invading the ranch. And those are just the deaths that John managed to witness or hear about before the sharp and painful tugging at his stomach yanked him back to bed. He has no earthly clue how Rook is managing to be so tragically accident-prone, but he has half a mind to grab the sorry sinner by the ear and put him in a padded room where he can’t so much as hit his head on a door frame.

“Do you think, perhaps, that Hope County is purgatory?” John asks Faith. He’s given her a call, and he currently sits at his kitchen table, poking at a bowl of strawberries. He’s been eating less. The calories don’t carry over anyway. Faith gives a breathy chuckle in response, but he can tell that she isn’t amused. She soaks up brooding tones and self-flagellation like a sponge.

“...Caught in an endless cycle of woe, are we?” She asks. “Melodramatic, even for you.”

John growls, exasperated, but with no violence directed towards her.

“This entire town is a sweltering _pit_ filled with residents whose only motivations involve making my life more _difficult_.”

“Rook isn’t all that bad, at least,” Faith giggles, “don’t pretend you aren’t a bit of an _admirer_. There’s a certain charm to him.”

“That’s not—I’m sorry, ‘ _Rook_?’ Do you have a fucking book club together? Would you like me to send him back over the river? Let’s see how charming he is after he takes a rocket launcher to _your_ boathouse.”

There’s a pregnant pause in which Faith seems to be thinking something over. John’s about to say something else before her voice cuts through again.

“The Deputy hasn’t been in the Henbane in weeks. Maybe he’s taken a liking to you, too.” John notices when Faith catches herself and starts referring to their sinner as the Deputy again, but he doesn’t comment on it. It’s noteworthy, and now that he’s aware, he’s under the impression that Faith is lacking concern when it comes to her current, lax hold on the River. John, suspicious, takes an aggressive bite out of a strawberry.

“I remember you being more gung-ho about recruiting Wrath last month. He take the wind out of your sails?” John asks, trying to keep his tone casual—trying not to imply that the wind in his own sails is beginning to wane. Faith gives him a thoughtful hum. Her voice is melodic. Gentle. Carefree. Like she gets a good night’s sleep. John feels _envy_.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Faith answers after another second. Something about her is just off. “I’ve just been trying another tactic lately.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” John asks, crushing the strawberry’s leaf between his fingers.

“Loving him, John.”

Once John recovers from feeling like he’s been socked in the throat, he snarls a frustrated excuse to Faith and hangs up.

  
  


‘You have to love them, John.’

John contemplates setting the ranch on fire, just to see how the day would end. He thinks about telling Rook to go fuck himself. He thinks about telling Joseph to go fuck himself.

He thinks about cocaine and a burning, bloodied nose. He thinks about saying ‘yes.’ He thinks about how Jacob looked when he was young and incensed and framed by the flames of that hellish fucking farmhouse. He thinks about Joseph clinging tightly to his fingers as the police shoved their big brother into the back of a car.

John thinks about foreign hands groping and clawing at his body, and he thinks about how none of it ever felt like love, and he thinks about how the only reason he has any love at all is because his brothers found him again.

Is he capable of it? Does he have the space within himself to store any of it? The love that Joseph begs for him to exhibit—it only ever comes out twisted and incorrect. The only love that John has is for his brothers, and even that skips like a scratched CD.

  
  


‘You have to love them, John.’

John thinks about how the Deputy’s eyes rage on like a storm; gray and turbulent, yet framed in a red tint. He thinks about how those broad shoulders might look covered in scratches and purple bruises. He thinks about teeth framed with blood and an indulgent smile; sometimes full of wrath, but never full of _hate_. Oh, how beautiful Rook would be, held in John’s hands and shoved—once more—into the waters that will keep him from perdition. What a tempting apple he is.

John thinks about college and coke, and the Lust carved into his chest itches. He isn’t sure if he can love their heretic in a way that Joseph won’t disapprove of.

  
  


‘You have to love them, John.’

  
  


When John wakes up, he understands that the Deputy died somewhere in the Valley. That stupid fucking text message will chime in any minute now, and every morning John wishes that God had given the Deputy some other inane default other than an innuendo for rebel graffiti. He takes a deep breath through his nose, folds his hands over his chest, and resigns himself to ignoring his siblings for the day. Faith’s words are going to bother him until he can cut them out with a knife.

When Rook’s text comes in, John picks up his phone and takes a moment to consider what he’ll be saying today. It’s uncomfortably different, but he currently doesn’t have much to lose.

‘Deputy. I see the movement to despoil half the county is going well.’ John continues to be surprised by how quickly Rook is willing to reply.

‘Would be going better if your peons would stop chasing me around in planes.’

John sits up eagerly, feeling like a fish is tugging on the bait at the end of his line. Something Rook said a few days ago has stuck with him.

‘Perhaps something can be arranged. A sort of deal to make both of our lives a little easier.’

‘I’m not getting baptized again.’ Is the immediate response. John hisses; Rook teeters back and forth between haughty fox and timid buck.

‘Nothing so dramatic. What about a simple chat between friends?’

‘Friends?’

‘Equal adversaries, then.’

‘I’m open to anything that doesn’t involve a tattoo gun or a bliss bullet.’

Which is how John somehow finds himself fidgeting in the doorway of an abandoned, ransacked little cabin tucked away in the forest, not too far from the equally-empty pumpkin farm. He’s surprised that Wrath even humored the idea of a private meeting; John knows that under any other circumstances, he himself would’ve brought reinforcements in a less-than-creative blindside. It’d be the smart and strategic thing to do, after all, which means he doesn’t know whether or not to suspect that Rook is being tailed by his faithful mutt Boshaw. And also the dog.

The gravity of the situation weighs on him as he waits for the Deputy to show up, the seconds ticking by on his wristwatch. John hasn’t yet considered what may happen if _he_ were the one to die instead of Rook. If all of Rook’s playful innuendos, sad glances, and cut-off pleas for a truce amount to nothing but disingenuous sin, then John has no other tricks up his sleeve. If Rook puts a bullet in him, he can’t be sure that he’ll wake up in his bed again.

John tries not to look too irritable or anxious when Rook’s broad silhouette breaks through the treeline proper. He appears to be alone, which at least means that he cares enough about potential to not outright cuff John.

“If you have any of your buddies in that cabin I’ll shoot your ear off,” greets the Deputy. John can’t mention that he’s already attempted to do so—in the church, on the day that started all of this. John gives a phony smile and spreads his arms.

“Wrath, oh Wrath, there you go again. Unable to see the forest for the trees.” It’s hard to keep from stepping into their usual rhythm. There’s a back and forth to their conversations that John has always found compelling. It’s so... _different_ from what he has with anyone else. The Deputy narrows his eyes but gives a wry little grin.

“I see the trees just fine, John,” he says. But then there’s a weird little lull that the two of them normally lack. The snark is always rapid-fire and steady and easy. Rook looks fine—no more haggard than usual, but there’s an honesty in his eyes, because he’s just as new to this as John is, it seems. Suspicion appears to win out over optimism.

“What is this? There aren’t even any birds nailed to the windows,” Rook gestures weakly at the cabin and it startles a short laugh out of John. He covers it with a cough and crosses his arms over his chest.

“This,” John replies, out of his depth but not willing to show it, “is me wanting to take a day off.”

“A day off,” Rook deadpans.

“I think you could use one, too. Just hazarding a guess.” John isn't sure how serious Rook was about that vague 'idea' he mentioned a couple not-weeks back. He tries to appeal to a mutual goal that's average enough on its own.

Rook shakes his head, eyes widening a fraction. He almost looks sad but the hint is gone as quickly as it came; Rook shuts it all down with a blank look and a squared set to his shoulders.

“I’m leaving,” Rook says, apparently deciding that John’s full of shit, and John is taking a step forward and reaching out before he can stop himself.

“Wait!” John exclaims, a little too frantic to leave room for the cool facade any longer. Rook visibly swallows and a crease forms in his brow.

Rook waits patiently for John to say something else and make his case, but all John can do is gape; gape as if he didn’t spend the better part of a decade improvising as a prosecutor. John’s open fingers clench around the air a couple times before he pulls his fist back to his chest. He has no doubt that he appears quite cowardly. Jacob and Joseph both expect more from him, but they couldn’t possibly understand how _grating_ it is, being John.

The best plane and the biggest ranch and the most devoted believers and he just can’t make it past dusk. The Deputy stands before him, unbending and unbroken. As sturdy as Jacob yet as sensitive as Joseph. And sometimes as angry as John.

John realizes that there’s nothing he can say. He has no actual plan--Rook seems like he may have had one, but it was buried with a shovel the moment John opened his mouth. And John could shoot the Deputy right now, but it would only put him back underneath his silk sheets. John can almost pretend that that’s the only reason he doesn’t want to pull a trigger.

“I read the book,” Rook speaks after a few moments, and John’s eyes dart up. “Joseph’s, I mean. I’m sure some of it was embellishment, but the meat of it all was pretty rough.”

Rook’s eyes are like liquid Bliss, sure, but John’s eyes are often drawn to the peculiar scar that hooks over the bridge of his nose. John doesn’t know if he got it before or after he joined the Sheriff’s Department.

“I found myself getting angry sometimes as I read it. Joseph says God is looking out for his children, but here I was, turning the pages and wondering where God was when three boys never got any help—not from anybody.”

“...You make it sound so dire,” John chuckles and forgets to add a note of humor. He can’t meet Rook’s eyes again. He feels like he’s being flayed, and he’s not used to being on this end of scrutiny.

“Dire is what all this is,” Rook gestures dumbly at the woods, referring to Hope County in its entirety. “Had to get here somehow.”

“You don’t get to sit there and speculate about our, our,” John’s mouth almost forms ‘trauma,’ but it’s like his entire body is repulsed by the word, “book.” John says instead, becoming irritated. Rook’s face hardens at that, and he once again goes from amiable rival to brick house of an enemy.

“And you don’t get to sit there and tell me you want a _day_ _off,_ ” Rook sneers mockingly, “when you could just be handling the traffic tickets I write up—you know, like a normal fucking lawyer.”

“It’s not that easy, _Deputy_ ,” John snarls, tossing up a hand, “traffic tickets aren’t exactly in _God’s plan_ right now. Something big is on the horizon. It’s not my problem if you want to stick your head in the sand! We’re trying to help!”

“It’s like talking to a fucking wall!” Rook shouts at an audience that isn’t present, and John can’t actually recall if he’s heard him raise his voice before. “You four are the only people that want to see me as the Devil, John—I’ve got way too many others that need me to be something else.” Rook finishes sternly, clearly showing no desire for a fistfight or another argument. He adjusts his pack and the rifle over his shoulder before turning and walking back into the woods. 

  
  


John has no idea how the Deputy dies that day.

  
  


Another day passes without John trying anything revolutionary, but the morning after that he decides to try meeting in the middle again. He once again asks the Deputy if he’d be willing to meet somewhere to talk, but something must have changed based on the way he framed the question, because Rook insists on meeting at the goddamn _Spread Eagle_. He said he’d pull some strings with Fairgrave, and they’d have the place to themselves—nobody in Fall’s End would know they were there.

John acquiesces after a stubborn back and forth, and only because he can sense Rook retreating. He has to accept that he has nothing to lose by meeting in the middle of the rats’ nest, even though he’s still not sure if time will still reset if _he’s_ the one that ends up eating a bullet.

A discrete drive ends up planting him outside the back of the bar, right in the middle of Resistance territory, and once he enters through the back door, he notices its dim lighting and empty seats. Fairgrave must have closed up shop for a bit—perhaps Rook took a less-seedy route of persuasion and told her to take a day off and leave him to drink.

And there Rook sits, planted at the bar with a _really_ girly margarita curled in his bandaged hand. Rook looks up when John enters and offers an unsure wave. John eyes the rows of liquor nestled behind the counter, tugs at his shirt collar, and stiffly takes a seat with one stool in the middle to keep him from bumping elbows with the Antichrist.

“Want me to make you a drink?” Rook asks. “Shit. Wait! Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested a bar.” Rook says, having the nerve to look _sympathetic_. What a tooth-rotting _saint_. A look of regret flashes over Rook’s face. “I read the book, you know. That’s what I meant. I think Mary May has...juice. Water?”

John lifts a hand to interrupt Rook’s newfound anxiety and he’d chuckle if he didn’t feel like a charity case.

“I’m not going to spiral into a relapse because of your pink nightmare,” John says, nodding at Rook’s drink, “Christ.” It all sets John’s teeth on edge because the _care_ reminds him of Joseph. Albeit with less condescending propriety.

“Forget I said anything,” Rook says then, looking back to the bowl of peanuts not far from the sink. His cheeks are turning red and John has to remind himself to swallow. And breathe.

“Read the book, you said?” John asks, even though he's already heard him talk about Joseph's scripture back at the cottage. John remembers his words—about traffic tickets and God.

“It was...good insight,” the Deputy replies, though it’s lilted almost like a question. He almost seems to sigh. “That’s not all it was.” John wonders what he means by that, but then Rook is clearing his throat.

“So you really didn’t call me here for a tattoo appointment?” Rook’s mouth quirks up a bit.

“I didn’t, in fact,” John replies, “I simply wanted to chat.” He doesn’t dare use the words ‘day off’ again. He can see why that would rile up the Deputy. The implication that Rook is merely...writing traffic tickets here in Hope County, and could benefit from putting his feet up for a bit. It's not like John isn't working his ass off, too. He can relate.

“Sure, why not,” the Deputy shrugs one shoulder and slams back a good few gulps of his margarita. The glass shifts in its own condensation when he sets it back on the counter. “Totally normal.”

John drums his fingers on the wooden grain beneath his hand. It’s been stained over time, and it’s littered with scrapes from knives and forks and Lord knows what else. Not unlike the Deputy, who is, as always, a quilt of injuries. Today he has a yellow bruise cradling his eyebrow, and John wonders how he obtained it this morning.

“How are your companions?” John asks, and immediately he’s internally screaming at himself to shut his fucking mouth, because there’s no way that Boshaw and company aren’t a cute cue for Rook to pull out a baseball bat. “I’ve been dealing with more plane repairs since Miss Drubman retrieved her bird a couple weeks back.” Make that over a month ago for John.

The Deputy’s head slowly turns to face John, and John, coward that he is, avoids his gaze again. Subconsciously, John wonders if this is how his brothers feel when dealing with him sometimes. John has no idea how to gauge whether or not Rook will laugh and allow himself to be pulled along by John’s teasing. He may very well dump the rest of his fruity drink on John’s bespoke vest.

“My _friends_ ,” Rook drawls, “would be doing a lot better if your siblings--”

“Alright, alright, I already got the picture, I’d rather not wind you up and watch you go today,” John cuts Rook off, clenching his fists on the counter top. Rook tilts his head curiously.

“That’s a first,” the Deputy’s voice drops, and his eyes are hooded, “normally you love to get me going.” His voice is rich like honey, and John pointedly doesn’t watch his Adam’s apple shift when he takes another draw from his drink.

“Can you pick whether or not you’re going to be pissed with me for five minutes?” John asks, his voice hitching up a bit. He checks the time on his phone just to make himself look occupied.

“You make it difficult,” Rook says, finishing off his drink and leaning forward on one elbow. He rests his chin on his palm and stares at John.

“Yeah, that's what people say,” John mutters under his breath, locking his phone again and shoving it back into his pocket. Rook’s posture seems to open up a bit at that for some reason. He’s silent for a few seconds before he speaks again.

“...You wanted to chat?”

John takes those words and runs with them.

He feels like he’s getting somewhere in the next twenty minutes, even if he knows in the back of his head that he’s running on a treadmill.

They have an actual conversation—the topic flits from the weather, to Montana itself, to the wildlife. John discovers so many things from hints and going-nowhere sentences. Rook, despite being such a violence-prone person, seems to turn his nose up at hunting and the local policies for caribou. He likes that the season is becoming milder, and that it will soon be time for sweaters. There’s even the strangest implication that he’s scared of bears despite being such bosom buddies with the Whitetails mascot.

In turn, John mentions that he prefers warmer weather for flying. He also mentions the legal labyrinth he had to deal with when he and his brothers first moved to the county; the hunting licenses and firearms paperwork are an absolute dread up here. It’s why everyone and their fucking mother is packing heat—Joseph sure knows how to pick an end of days operation center.

It's a nice distraction from everything else, at least for a bit, and John is actually treated to the sight of the Deputy _laughing_ when it all inevitably goes to shit.

John’s heart skips a beat when he hears rattling and muffled conversation behind the front door. Rook looks back, aghast, before shoving John bodily from his bar stool.

“Time for you to go!” Rook hisses, motioning for the back door beyond the restrooms.

In these few seconds, John absently thinks about how counter-intuitive it all is. Rook has Fall’s End reinforcements making their way into the Spread Eagle, and John could name a thousand strategies that could benefit their gritty little Resistance. They could tie John up and see how much leverage he really has when it comes to his siblings. They could jab screwdrivers into his scars and open them up again. They could string him up out front and let the locals get their just desserts. He’s a well of knowledge for Eden’s Gate, and to let him go would be to spoil a good opportunity.

It’s stupid, John thinks, to let it continue. Cats and dogs chasing each other, never ending, never resting. John looks back into the Deputy’s wide and almost-worried eyes. They’re still the color of Bliss, and they’re the reason that John keeps letting the game continue, looping clock aside.

John’s ears are flooded with white noise as soon as Mary May enters her bar, framed by three men.

“I told you, Kenny, I would’ve seen your keys if you’d left them...here.”

Time slows to a crawl as soon as all four newcomers look up and register that John Seed is frozen, halfway down the mini hall to the back door. Several things happen at once.

“What the fuck?” Mary May yells at the top of her lungs, “You fucking--”

The roaring in John’s ears swells and two of her companions draw their pistols. The Deputy is yelling, and Mary May is yelling, and all three strangers are yelling, and both present guns are aimed at John, whose feet skid as he makes his way—almost backwards—to the door. He’s barely even a yard from the push handle when the shot pops off—Rook swinging around the end of the bar in a determined lunge when the bullet makes a home in his chest.

John gapes, and he hears a wild, strangled noise that may be coming from his own mouth when Rook sinks heavily to one knee. In the middle of the hall. Right between John and the others.

“Deputy,” John manages, inching forward. Rook coughs and braces a hand on the nearest wall.

“Rook!” Mary May shouts, sounding completely incensed. She scrambles to meet Rook on the floor, and she immediately takes off her jacket to wad it up and press it against the latest addition to Rook’s collection of gunshot wounds. “Good _Christ_ , would one of you go get help!” She barks at the other men, two of whom go running off into the street. The third remains, his hand trembling, because he was the one with the eager finger.

“What happened to ‘some alone time at the bar?’” Mary May chastises quietly as Rook settles his back against the wall, grunting with effort. Her voice wavers somewhat with uncertainty, and when Rook’s eyes slowly move to latch onto John, John’s breath hitches.

“Something else came up,” Rook mumbles, his eyes still not leaving John’s. That’s when Mary May turns and glares at him, and if looks could cause wildfires. Well.

“Get the _fuck_ out of my bar,” Mary May snaps, leaving no room for an argument. John swallows so hard it hurts and with stilted motions, he pushes out of the back and staggers onto the pavement. He barely registers the cold sweat or the shaking knees. He yanks open his car’s door and falls clumsily into the driver’s seat.

John sits there. He doesn’t press the ignition button, and he doesn’t shut the door behind him. The Deputy is probably dying again. And not because of a car wreck or an unfortunate and idiotic stumble in the river. It’s because he’s _kind_ and grotesque and manipulative. It’s because he willfully stepped in front of a fate that was meant for John; one that John worked fairly hard to earn, really.

Hero of Hope County shot by one of his own devotees. That’s a new one.

John doesn't know how much longer he can watch the tape rewind.

He can’t keep _dealing_ with the _dying_ even though death happens every day in Hope County, particularly in John’s bunker. It's hypocritical to say the least, but he’s up to his fucking jaw in the death of the Deputy, and bile rises in his throat right along with it. No matter how it plays out, no matter what John tries to do, it still doesn’t feel like he’s triumphing over the poster child of the apocalypse, vanquishing evil for God.

The poster child of the apocalypse is scared of bears. And he misses writing traffic tickets.

He reads Joseph's fucking book and he isn't a beer guy at all.

The rage in John’s gut reaches a fever pitch as he stares at the back of the Spread Eagle. Before he knows it, he’s kicking wildly at his door and slamming his hands down onto the steering wheel. He writhes in his seat and bites straight through his bottom lip. He opens his mouth and the world shifts.

  
  


The Deputy, clearly, doesn't survive. John shoves his face into his pillow and screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for waiting for chapter 2!! The state of things has been stressful--I'm an essential worker lmao and I've been working on some commissions, so again, thank you for being patient.  
> I hope you enjoyed this addition!! As always, kudos are very much appreciated and comments make my day! Hope you're all well<3 
> 
> Also!! I'm sorry for not replying to some comments individually. I definitely read all of them, but sometimes I don't know how to reply ;A;


	3. Chapter 3

Two more days pass before John can will himself to try again after Rook’s incident at the bar. Most of this time is spent feeling sorry for himself, drifting around the house and waiting for Rook to die somewhere off in the distance. At this point he needs the Deputy to live so that he can carry on with his life, no matter how counter-intuitive the entire debacle has become. The Deputy isn’t supposed to survive, but clearly John has no alternatives.

Going to Joseph still isn’t an option.

So John goes to the only person that will play along with his neuroticism and won’t give him the infamous ‘oh, poor John’ look. Rook, it seems, will continue to agree to John’s meetings under the pretense of some sort of discussion. It’s the only thing that John’s had to go off of since that one particular radio call a couple weeks back.

Rook, once again, meets John in some subtle location off the beaten path—this time, a worn-down gas station that John’s followers rarely use for vehicle trade-offs.

“You look like shit,” the Deputy greets seamlessly as he kicks open the dusty front door of the station; the bell above the door gives a little jingle. John glares up from between the fingers that cover his face.

“Thank you, Deputy,” John replies without missing a beat.

Rook clearly doesn’t remember any of their previous cycles, so his level of suspicion seems to vary every time John texts him an invitation. It’s odd; it’s like for brief moments his body language implies that he’s forgotten that John is the enemy. Either that or he hasn’t forgotten but he just doesn’t care.

“Need an Aspirin? I think I have a bottle somewhere,” Rook slings his backpack onto the counter and starts to rummage through some of the front pockets. John sighs heavily and waves a hand.

“I’m fine.” John says it as if he’s being held at gunpoint. Rook’s eyes narrow and he drums his fingers on the pack. “Save it for when you have another lapse in judgment and go careening off the side of a cliff.”

“Hey, I haven’t done that,” Rook says almost defensively.

‘Yet,’ John’s brain supplies.

“Yet.” Rook finishes. John groans.

“You should just shoot me here and get it over with, you heretic. It’d help me a lot more than an Aspirin.” John rakes his hands back through his hair, causing some of the gelled locks to curl up. A spiderweb drifts from the overhead ceiling fan and John chooses to eye that instead of Hope County’s favorite fucking oaf. John pointedly doesn’t look over when he feels the Deputy heave himself up onto the counter to sit beside him.

“Shoot you here? That doesn’t sound very grandiose. I was thinking you’d go out in flames—in a plane. At least that’d be flashy enough to get Joe’s attention.”

John winces at that. He ignores Rook’s newfound, soft tone of voice. He doesn’t think he can bear to pay too much attention to it.

“...I hope you really didn’t just call me here to put you out of your misery. That doesn’t feel like a victory.” The Deputy says sadly, after a moment. John snarls and grabs Rook by the sleeve of his jacket before he can think better of it.

“I don’t need it to feel like a _victory_ for you, asshole! I’m just tired of whatever this is!” John knows that Rook won’t know what he’s talking about, but it’s all the same in the end.

“Whatever what is?” Rook reaches up to place his hand over John’s—John snatches it away as if he’s been burned. “What, the... Eden’s Gate? You’re tired of it?” Rook persists. The suggestion stirs some hidden worry or idea tucked away deep within John’s chest, but he doesn’t let that train of thought leave the station. His mouth and nose twist as if he’s eaten something bitter.

“I’m not leaving Eden’s Gate! I’m not leaving my brothers!” John exclaims, meeting Rook’s eyes with a glare.

“I didn’t say you were,” Rook replies, hesitantly raising a hand as if he’s guiding a spooked horse. John hisses and turns his head away. “I’m just...mildly suggesting that...maybe you need a break?”

A day off.

Just a few days earlier, that same suggestion made Rook irritated. But here, it isn’t being framed as some lackadaisical getaway—here’s it being framed as a permissible relief of duty. A manipulative snake, is what Rook is. It’s what Joseph _said_ he is. It’s like he’s trying to coax John into letting go of the reins so that the Resistance can get an extra foothold.

Except.

Except he actually looks concerned. His brow is creased down the middle, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with focus. As always, he is a temptation. His mouth is the muted pink of a honey-crisp apple.

“God is punishing me,” John mutters, his fingers curling around the edge of the counter top. Rook exhales softly.

“How so?” Rook asks.

“He isn’t letting me beat you,” John admits, and it feels like he’s telling Rook everything with just those few words. “...I don’t think he’s going to let me beat you.” And then it feels as if he’s stumbled upon another realization, but it’s painful, and it doesn’t make sense. It’s an intimidating notion, and it makes John’s shoulders tense up and his spine curl.

A pregnant silence fills the station until Rook finally speaks again.

“Well...maybe you don’t have to beat me?” He posits. John scoffs. “No, really! I...you don’t have to leave your brothers. But why not just let them do it? Beat me, I mean. Joseph can’t punish you so long as you tried, right? You’ve been giving it a hell of a go, John. Getting me isn’t easy.”

The Deputy doesn’t say it to stroke his own ego—he doesn’t sound like he’s gloating. It sounds like he knows the facts, and the facts are as follows: he’s put up a fucking fight, he will continue to put up a fucking fight, and he puts up a fucking fight because not everybody can continue to do so.

When John doesn’t say anything in return, Rook takes that as permission to speak again.

“I read the book, you know.”

John closes his eyes. Christ, why does he bring that up so often? It makes John feel like a tattered old journal—like Rook has cracked open his liquor-stained pages and read him for what he is. The corners are dog-eared, and somewhere in there is a spilled dusting of cocaine pressed in like a bookmark.

“I figured.” John grumbles.

“I think you’re a hard worker.”

John scoffs again.

“Maybe you didn’t realize how tired you’ve been until now, that’s all.”

“Nice Joseph impression,” John sneers, but there’s no bite to it. He’s lost the energy to do so much as move his lip.

“I’m trying to make Hope County better,” Rook continues with renewed vigor, bypassing John’s defense. His hand is now resting a mere inch away from John’s. “I can do it. And if you’re not going to let me do it, then I’m going to keep fighting. I’ll keep going until you exhaust yourself. Until all of you exhaust yourselves.”

Now John knows _that’s_ a fucking promise. It’s one Rook’s kept for months now, but this past month especially. John’s eyes flit over to glance at Rook, who is now hopping down from the counter.

“But it isn’t fun—exhausting you, I mean. I like it when we’re on equal ground. I like it when you push back.”

John’s heart skips a beat at that, but he tries not to make the statement more than what it was. Then his heart picks up the pace when Rook firmly grabs his hand and tugs him off of the counter. He doesn’t let go. Seconds tick by and he still doesn’t let go.

“I’ll go to the Whitetails. I’ll mess with your brother a bit. But you can’t just expect time to stop for you until you make the choices you need to.”

John’s throat goes dry as the Deputy leads him out of the gas station by the hand. They’re walking with their fingers clasped together, but John can hardly register _that_ over the roaring in his ears. The Deputy has no idea how _relevant_ his words are. John’s still not unconvinced that there’s some deceptive being wearing Rook as a costume, attempting to lure him away from Eden.

But currently, really, they’re two men walking across the parking lot and into the woods.

Rook says nothing and keeps his gaze straight ahead; furthermore, he doesn’t mention their hands. John pretends that his palms aren’t sweating. He’s mere inches away from a body that he failed to cleanse—one that he held down in the water while taking it for granted. He’s also strapped this body to a rolling chair in order to await confession. It isn’t quite fair.

“You’ve still not confessed to me,” John says, breaking the silence. The only present noises are their shoes crunching through leaves and distant chirping of birdsong. Rook hums in acknowledgment.

“Confessed what?”

“ _Anything_ ,” John says pointedly. “You can’t even _humor_ the idea that we’re right; you refuse to give me the chance to help you reach Atonement.” The Deputy laughs with a bit of humor.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s almost as if you _didn’t_ want me to be cleansed the last time you dunked my head in a river. Just wanted to jump right into the screwdriver segments.”

“Joseph was right,” John says like a tooth is being pulled, “I was hasty. And mistaken. But you have potential. I’ve seen it,” John says firmly. “I see it every day,” he mutters in an afterthought.

“Potential for what?” Rook asks. John’s mouth snaps shut and it remains that way.

‘Perfection,’ John thinks, but he refuses to let his view be known. Rook sighs once he realizes that John won’t continue.

“Alright, alright,” Rook rolls his shoulders, popping his neck when it tilts from side to side. John looks down at their hands as Rook thinks. “I came to Hope County to run away,” Rook says.

“That doesn’t exactly sound like a sin,” John says, narrowing his eyes. Rook laughs and bumps his arm against John; it’s a bit rough, like the lug doesn’t remember his own strength.

“Let me finish,” Rook reprimands before continuing. “I had a family, and I had friends. I didn’t exactly abandon them; I’d text them if I could.” Rook speaks without accusation even though John’s very responsible for the electronic isolation within the County borders. “But I found myself being angry all the time. Irritable because of all the things I couldn’t do. Red tape and a small town and financial issues, the whole shebang. Was a big anti-authority nut with no real way of getting back at ‘the man.’”

Rook chuckles ruefully and despite everything, seems at ease among the surrounding trees.

“I didn’t even want to join law enforcement when I made the move, but out here it wasn’t some gross symbol, I guess. It’d just give me some insurance for a bit while I broke up bar fights and wrote traffic tickets.”

John’s hand twitches at that, and Rook seems to take it as an invitation to squeeze his fingers.

“Thought I could use this space to clear my head and figure out what to do with myself. I didn’t feel like I had a purpose. I don’t know if you’d wanna call that pride or sloth, or what. Greed, maybe—to drop everything and look out for myself just because I hate being _aware_ of all the things that need fixing.”

Rook worries at his chapped bottom lip with his teeth for a second, but he doesn’t stop his train of thought.

“Funnily enough, I guess I _did_ find a purpose out here, and now I _am_ able to try to fix all of the broken shit. Not that I ever pictured myself doing half of the things that are being asked of me now. But I do them. And I try not to complain about them, because I guess in a roundabout way, this is what I asked for.”

The two of them slow their pace as they reach the gradual slope of a riverbank. It’s not the same place in which Rook tripped and cracked his skull, but it’s certainly the same border that separates them from Jacob’s mountains.

“Can I be absolved?” Rook asks softly, slowly rounding to stand in front of John and face him plainly. He’s close, and he has to look down the scarred arch of his nose to compensate for John’s height. “Was I too inconsiderate to run away? Am I too haughty to think that I can do this?” He asks, and it sounds like he values John’s opinion. It makes it sound like John is indeed the Baptist, and he is able to do his duty.

John swallows, throat dry, and rubs his thumb over the battered skin of Rook’s hand.

“All can be forgiven if you are truly righteous. Joseph would certainly welcome you with open arms,” says John. He feels the Deputy slowly draw his hand away, and John has to fight to keep himself from snatching it back.

“I’m not asking about Joseph,” Rook breathes, a wan smile on his face as he begins his departure down the pebbled slope. It’s as if some unknown force has lowered the scene’s curtain. A thread is cut, and John and Rook are both pulled from their shared trance.

“I’ll go into the Mountains for now, but I’ll be back. You should...do what you think is best. I’ll be prepared to face you either way.” And _there’s_ the hard edge of the Deputy—his murky eyes piercing and almost accusatory. They carry a barely-concealed promise. That he will shoot down John’s planes and eradicate his silos and burn down his ranch if John decides to drop the confused leader charade after today.

John is about to reply when the treeline rustles with sudden commotion.

“Brother John!” A man exclaims as he and several other armed Eden’s Gate members burst forward onto the riverbank. “A scout thought he saw you not a mile back, sir,” he continues dutifully. “We had to investigate when you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

John barely registers that he muted his notifications hours ago. John’s eyes slowly drift over to the Deputy, who stands on the river’s edge with his boots soaking in the current. John’s men notice him just the same.

How could any of this not possibly be rigged? How is this not a joke, when the Deputy can't make it across this fucking river or live past sundown otherwise?

“The Sinner!” One shouts with surprise and equal anger. The others—Christ, there must be eight—all leap into action.

“Don’t worry, sir! We have you,” the team’s leader pushes himself in front of John, an arm held out protectively.

“Wait.” John says without thinking, not caring about how it would look. He just needs Rook to make it across the damned river. And speaking of, Rook is already working; a hunting knife is thrown and it sticks its landing in a follower's throat. He’s then removing his pistol from its holster, but it’s shot out of his hand by another follower with surprisingly good aim.

“Wait,” John says again, louder and with more aggression, but his voice is lost in the commotion. The Deputy yells in pain and cradles his hand briefly, but he still refuses to be caught. He moves to heft his rifle from over his shoulder, but its strap is abruptly stuck on some other strap or binding.

It just looks like bad _luck_. It continues to come down to bad luck.

“I said wait!” John yells, fury beginning to overwhelm the fear in his throat. He grabs his unsung protector and pushes him bodily out of the way.

“Brother John, you don’t have to worry--” is all he hears as he strides down the bank. They’re man-handling Rook, even as he thrashes and punches and gets his proper licks in. He hears as much as he sees one follower break Rook’s cheekbone. Another grabs him by his hair and shoves him down into the water. It’s a hollow parody of the Cleansing.

John yanks his own pistol out of its holster and flicks off the safety. He grabs another follower out of the feeding frenzy, shoots him in the knee, and drops him back into the water. The Deputy, of course, can’t notice, as he chokes and snarls and curses. He’s Wrath, here, embodied. Cornered and desperate, he always turns to Wrath. It’s what keeps his blood pumping. It's addictive to watch in spite of it all.

There are many hands grabbing at Rook and many mouths telling John that they’ve got him, they’ll handle him, so earnest and devout that they haven’t noticed John’s own protest. They’re threatening to shoot Rook if he refuses to cooperate. It’s clear that none of them _love_ the Deputy.

You _have_ to love them, John.

“Keep ignoring my orders, see where it fucking gets you!” John shouts over the din, his throat hoarse with the effort of it, “Brother Jacob will have a field day with such _weak_ excuses for--!”

There’s a gunshot, and red blooms in the river’s current immediately. John trembles violently as the Deputy’s body goes slack.

  
  


He was naive to think that he made any real progress today.

  
  


John wakes up at 8:38 in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading everything so far!! Sorry that this chapter was a bit shorter than the others, but I definitely wanted to post an update.  
> I appreciate your patience, and I DEFINITELY appreciate your comments, even if I don't reply to all of them.  
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter; kudos are wonderful and comments make my day. Hope you're all well during this time of stress uwu
> 
> And no worries; we'll be getting to Jacob and Joseph soon enough lmaooo


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as John connects the dots, he’s tearing out of his bedroom with nothing but a pair of sweatpants and the remaining threads of his dignity. That over-eager whelp with the need for praise—the one leading John’s little rescue party—was the same follower that shot the Deputy twice without permission, back when the cycle began.

A liability is what he is; John knows exactly what Jacob would have to say about a defect that can’t follow directions, so he wastes none of his precious daylight by questioning his current decision.

John barrels down the front steps and across the lawn, ignoring surprised looks from the guards. His shoulders curled tight, his breath short, and his teeth grinding—John zeroes in on the one that keeps ending the Deputy. The guard in question looks pleasantly surprised to see John focus on him, despite the murderous crease in John’s brow.

“Brother John--” he greets, but is hastily cut off.

“Give me your gun,” John bites out, his teeth clacking together when he speaks. He holds out a trembling hand. His follower is clearly confused, but he doesn’t question the order. He pulls his pistol from its holster and hands it over to John.

A gunshot cracks out as John immediately shoots the man in the middle of his forehead, and John’s moving again before the body even hits the ground, turning on his heel, tossing the gun to the side, and storming back up to his house. Once he’s on the porch, he turns again and snarls at the dozens of eyes now glued to his neurotic little show.

“That’s what happens when you can’t follow simple fucking orders!” John exclaims to the yard at large before heading back inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

John’s next decision is impulsive and not much else. Strategies have done him no good, and there’s no longer any use in trying to think three steps ahead when he can’t even plan for the weekend. Throwing caution to the wind, he figures that he may as well continue searching for some semblance of clarity. And it may be that the only time he feels purely sober and fleetingly happy is when he’s with the Deputy.

  
  


“This was unexpected, but maybe not totally unwelcome,” the Deputy greets, about an hour after John sent him an invitation via text. This time, they’re meeting closer to the border of the Henbane. John has parked his truck not far from the edge of an old fishing pond—he currently sits on the edge of the bed. The metal beneath his hands grows hot in the midday sun, and for once he doesn’t care that the heat is making his hair curl forward.

“Deputy,” John nods, watching as Rook slowly approaches from the edge of the clearing. His stroll is casual, but Rook is smart and therefore suspicious. His eyes tighten around John’s form. John shifts in place and fiddles with his sunglasses.

“Not an ambush?” Rook asks, dumb grin on his face. As if John would tell him if it was.

“I’m too tired for the histrionics.”

“Jesus, I wouldn’t believe you, except--”

“I look like shit. Yes, I know, so you’ve said,” John waves a hand and glares pathetically at the pond.

“When did I say that? That was rude of me.” Rook seems to leave it at that, and he continues to surprise John as he hops up into the truck bed, making himself at home. John remembers how revolted he looked when he was in the bunker, how Wrathful he became when John brandished a screwdriver and rolled him around in a chair. He looks nothing like that now. If he’s so willing to act like he’s forgiven John for his cruelties...well.

“I don’t know where to go from here,” John says honestly, out of the blue. That seems to be the way he’s doing things today.

“God, you four are so good at being cryptic.” Rook leans back and tosses his backpack to the ground-- far too trusting if you ask John. “Don’t tell me we’ve reached an impasse,” Rook jokes, but his eyes widen when John pins him with a serious look.

“Indeed,” John tugs at his collar, voice clipped. “I’ve no desire to shoot at you, lock you up, or otherwise stab you with shed tools. It’s simply stopped being _fun_.” John feels sweat beading at the back of his neck, and not just because of the heat.

“Okay...” Rook says slowly, processing. “But I thought the _fun_ was just a bonus. Aren’t you _supposed_ to be cleansing me? You can’t just quit, can you?”

“And what if I did?” John asks, surprising himself with the idea. “At least...just for today,” he amends. He knows it won’t last anyway.

“I guess _that_ could be...fun,” Rook offers, placating yet still bemused. “What if we just did...this today?” He asks, gesturing at the truck and the pond.

When John looks at Rook, his dark hair is once again haloed by the afternoon night, turning golden at the edges. He should be hearing the trumpets of the end of days just for looking at such a sinful, easy grin on that ruddy mouth. Ignoring the tight coil of lust in his gut, John smiles, showing teeth, and he ducks his head slightly.

“That’s agreeable.”

  
  


And so the afternoon is spent—Rook finds a discarded fishing pole and tries to show John how to cast, but writhing fish make John feel uneasy, and the venture doesn’t go on for too long. The two split Rook’s wrapped sub from the Spread Eagle, and John offers the fruity wine coolers that he packed just for his companion. They lounge in the back of John’s truck and talk about nothing in particular, swaying from one topic from the next.

It feels reminiscent of that time in the bar, yet more private and less disastrous; it’s lengthy quality time and John learns even more about Hope County's favorite savior. Rook offers information freely despite the fact that John could be collecting data to bring back to Joseph. Rook doesn’t seem to think about the what-if’s or the fact that John has dunked his head in a river and held his fellow deputy hostage. Rook’s focus is fixed on John, his attention fully devoted to him without lingering malice. It makes John feel like his toes are just barely peeking over the edge of a cliff. He’d only need the slightest nudge to fall completely, and he’d probably be complicit.

For all that John claws away from being knowable, there’s something comforting about the idea of being known by Rook. A confidant--both a lover and a fighter. He feels less unappealing and intolerable when Rook is asking him questions and tilting his head back to laugh. It’s like he’s home—similar to the way he feels with his brothers, yet not quite. It’s different.

John doesn’t realize how much time has passed until Rook slinks out of the trunk bed and stretches his scar-peppered arms over his head. The sweat makes his shirt cling to his back and John has to look away.

“I think I should head out; told Nick I’d swing by for a beer.”

“You hate beer,” John mutters, not really bothering to argue with Rook’s departure. The sun is starting its downward crawl, and John doesn’t want to be around for when Rook gets shot or caught in a bear trap or mauled by a cougar. Rook chuckles.

“It’s funny how you know that but Nick doesn’t!” Rook talks about the Ryes and his other friends freely, as if John couldn’t nab any one of them tomorrow just because. Rook just assumes the best of John, and frankly that should irritate him. But John is winded, and he’s still tired of being irritated. It's an exhausting way to live from day to day. He won't keep looking a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

“I don’t know what this was, John,” Rook continues, unbothered, “but it was nice. If we could do this every day, I’d be fine with it.”

John swallows past a dry throat. The Deputy should be careful what he wishes for.

“Yeah,” is all he says, gripping the lip of the truck bed.

“Hm. Normally I can’t get you to shut up,” Rook says, suddenly a lot closer, and John jerks back with a hitch in his breath. Rook stands in front of his legs and cages him in, his hands planted on either side of John’s hips. “And now you’re as quiet as a church mouse.”

Rook casts a shadow over John and the line of his jaw is mere inches away from John’s nose. Rook’s eyes are hooded yet still too calculating.

“You talk much more than I do,” John mutters, bitter and defensive. He scoffs when Rook just blinks at him, unimpressed. “Clearly I am tired, Deputy.”

“I know,” Rook replies in a hushed tone. He tilts his head to the side. “You look like you’re at your wit’s end.”

John’s eyes close at that. He stops breathing altogether when he feels Rook’s fingers curling at the back of his head, tangling in the heat-tacky gel of his hair.

“Something must have happened. I won’t nag you about it. It’s tough not being able to meet everyone’s expectations. Just know that I know.”

John succumbs. He melts, slouching forward and conforming to the curve of Rook’s shoulder and collarbone. He shudders at the feeling of being _held_ , touched by someone other than his siblings. It's better than alcohol, surely.

“I don’t love doing this, either. If I could just catch this lightning in a bottle--what we had here today, I mean...at least I wouldn’t have to go back to fighting you,” Rook rambles, perhaps mostly to himself, but the words make John’s teeth grit together in anger.

John’s hand travels up Rook’s chest, dragging over his t-shirt and coming to curve fingers over the column of Rook’s throat. With his cheek still resting on Rook’s shoulder, John begins to squeeze.

“If I kill you, the fighting wouldn’t last much longer,” he says—observational, mostly for himself. He wonders at the feeling of tight chords closing together beneath his grip. One of his rings begins to leave an indentation in Rook’s skin. Rook doesn’t move much, but his own hand comes up to clamp around John’s throat, too. In tandem.

“If I kill you, I’d still have a lot more fighting to do,” he observes, his voice a little wheezy from John’s grip. Spots begin to form in John’s vision; he lazily rolls his head back to look up at Rook’s own bliss-colored eyes. He looks drunk on John’s grip.

“’S too bad I can’t kill you,” John whispers hoarsely. “You won’t let me. God won’t, either.”

“And I won’t let me kill you.” Rook’s lips quirk up, just barely. “That’s kind of fucked up, I mean, you...” Rook trails off. John feels the tendons in his neck shift, just beneath his own fingers. Despite how pretty Rook is, John eases up his grip—Rook does the same, and now they both just hold each other’s throats.

“You said,” Rook mutters, his tongue darting out over his lips, “that true courage was cutting out your sin and displaying it...for everyone to see. Would you...for me, would you do that for me?” Rook asks. His voice makes it sound like he’s in a daze, but his eyes are clearer now. He sees straight through John, to the back of his skull, and John almost weeps from the intimacy of it. Like God with His fist closed around the shallow, rapid pumps of John's heart. John gives a soft whimper, small and pitiful.

Even if he didn’t want to do this for Rook, John doesn’t see how he’d have any other choice. If this is the wrong path—if he’s been led astray from Joseph and the rest of the flock, at least it feels _good_. If he’s been tested by God to prove that he can resist temptation, he’s surely failed. But at least Rook is looking at him like _this_. That may be all that matters right now.

“ _Yes_ ,” John breathes, and it’s natural for his head to tilt back and for his eyes to flutter shut when Rook closes the distance between them and presses their mouths together.

John tries not to get lost in the labyrinth of his own frustration—tries not to think about how tomorrow he’ll live in a world in which Rook didn’t do this. A world in which Rook doesn’t know that John groans, spreads his legs, and tries to drag him further back into the truck bed, away from the rest of needy fucking Hope County. He tries to allow himself to get lost in Rook's teeth and forget about everything else for a minute.

“Deputy, Deputy, so much tongue, and I don’t even know your _name_ ,” John chastises, nipping at Rook’s jaw as Rook laughs sincerely and fumbles with the buttons on John’s shirt.

“Why don’t you?” Rook asks, genuinely surprised; John found out that he hates beer and likes Elton John, but felt like an invasion of the Sheriff’s office hiring files would be too personal.

Rook leans back, looming over John with that blatant and insufferable smile on his face.

“It’s Jupiter,” Rook says simply, toying with the bunker key draped over John’s chest. John knows he isn’t going to take it. He’s too much of an honest dope to go this far for subterfuge. God, he never wants him to leave the Valley. He doesn't want the spell to end.

Jupiter. In another world, John could be convinced that God was giving them a fourth 'J' for their awful little family.

“Oh, good. Weird, but good. Was worried it’d be ‘Henry’ or something equally terrible,” John smirks.

“So sayeth _John_ ,” Jupiter taunts, smacking John’s hand away when he tries to grab the hem of his t-shirt. John’s brow creases with determination and the rapport is easing back into place as soon as there’s a distant _boom—_ a rumble that’s close enough to make the truck rock slightly on its tires. Rook perks up like a predator and his eyes latch onto a pillar of smoke beyond the treeline. John knows a curtain call when he sees one. Of course it wasn't going to last. Reflexively, he grabs Jupiter’s wrist when the big lug clambers out of the bed.

“John,” he starts, his eyes just screaming ‘I have to,’ despite the apology shining in them. John knows he has to. John opens his mouth but closes it before he can think of something to say—something that would’ve ended up being too honest anyway. Best to leave it be. He lets go of Jupiter’s arm and the tension rolls off his shoulders. He won’t be seeing the Deputy again today, the distant commotion guarantees it.

“Go on, go be the hero,” says John, sad but not quite bitter. Jupiter looks at him as he picks up his backpack and rifle. He offers a small, reassuring smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, John,” Jupiter nods. He almost looks like he wants to lean in for another kiss, but for some reason he refrains. John feels another scream rising in the back of his throat. It’s not fair.

  
  


“Yeah,” John mutters once Rook has left the clearing. “Tomorrow.”

He remains in that spot until the day resets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some apologies!! I'm sorry this took so long--I got really wrapped up in my job and all of the current events, and it's been hard to get in the headspace for writing! I'm also sorry that this chapter and the previous one are a bit shorter than usual! But I didn't want to draw this update out any longer, so here you go!  
> Thank you for being so patient with me, and please know that even if I don't reply to comments individually, I DO read and appreciate them!! Kudos are so appreciated, but comments really make my day, and I'd love to receive even more <3  
> I hope you all liked this chapter! Joseph and Jacob will be more involved again shortly >:3c tysm for reading and I hope you're all well and safe


	5. Chapter 5

The next few not-days are more or less the same—John has become addicted to Rook, and perhaps it’s in his best interest now to throw caution to the wind and continue to pursue him, even if Jupiter doesn’t remember the time they spend together.

Every day, John wakes up and shoots That Guard (just in case) before inviting Rook to a random, secluded location so that they can talk. Every day grants John new knowledge, and so he brings Rook margaritas, turkey clubs, decks of playing cards, favored CD’s, and so forth. And every day Rook is surprised by how much John seems to intuit about his wants and needs. It makes John feel lonely when he has to repeat himself or tell Rook the same secrets over and over, but the time spent together is better than nothing.

Jupiter somehow manages to make each cycle interesting and new by dragging John along for his whims. He sketches John in a drawing pad that he keeps in his backpack, he urges John to teach him how to use a tattoo machine, and he challenges John to games of pool—games that Jupiter mostly loses.

Jupiter is great at checkers, he likes to swim, and he seems to have a bad back. He hates the feeling of being sunburned. He twines his fingers with John’s on a good day. On better days, they kiss, but they don’t do much beyond that, for Jupiter’s attention always seems to stray. It’s as if there’s something in the back of his head that keeps him distracted; keeps him from fully committing to John, no matter how badly John craves him.

John can’t say that he’s very different, though. He knows that his brothers linger in his phone’s contacts; they’re never an hour away from wherever he and Rook wander off to. His love for them and his wanting for Rook keep him stretched, thin and wary. He has a family pulling at one arm, urging him to be protected and safe and strong, and he has this Other urging him to be adventurous and take a chance—to do things differently.

John has no solution for his inner quarrel. He plays it safe by coasting through each day, his only goal being to spend time with Rook. Some part of him is convinced that if he just spends _enough_ time with Rook, he’ll figure out a way to keep the false contentment from ending.

That is, until he startles and puts up one, pathetic sort of fight.

  
  


“I think I could like you,” Jupiter breathes the confession, eyes shut tight with his fingers gripping John’s belt. “If I don’t already like you,” he amends, still not opening his eyes to meet John’s. While the words make John’s heart skip like a stone on water, it makes his dick a little less interested for some reason. John carefully pries Rook’s hands away from his waist and he puts a little bit of distance between them, though John’s back is still pressed up against the bark of a pine tree.

“Don’t say that,” John scolds. His temper, albeit mild, is the result of fear. He’s lost track of the number of days, he just knows that he’s been meeting with Rook in order to fondle each other like Romeo and goddamn Juliet for at least a week. Every day, John somehow manages to sweet talk his way into getting looked at like—oh, like _this_. The Bliss-colored puppy eyes glittering down at him now make his scowl deepen. It’s not like John doesn’t already feel borderline advantageous; if Rook wasn’t so gung-ho about spending time with John, he’d feel sinful about the whole thing. He knows Jupiter’s likes and dislikes—he knows what corny lines work and get a hearty laugh out of him. He knows how Jupiter’s mouth tastes, and what kind of sounds he makes when he’s caught off guard but pleased about it.

Rook doesn’t have this advantage; he falls hook, line, and sinker for John’s needy behavior every day. He doesn’t _know_ as much as John. Even so, the harbinger of the end of the world never fusses about the treatment, so John doesn’t restrain himself.

Said harbinger of the end of the world is still looking at him like a wounded animal. John huffs.

“We don’t need you saying things that you don’t really mean for the sake of the _mood_ , Deputy,” John says dismissively. He adjusts the fit of his jeans and straightens the sunglasses nestled in his mussed hair. Jupiter just continues to stare, though now with a dash of irritation.

“You’re quick to assume I _don’t_ mean it,” Jupiter purses his lips. John really can’t afford to fucking get choked up. Over Rook. At all, ever.

“You can’t possibly fucking—you aren’t _allowed_ to mean it, Jupiter. Can we please resume our business?” Business meaning having Jupiter’s tongue shoved over his teeth.

“Our business,” Jupiter says flatly, his eyebrows climbing to his hairline. John lets his head tilt back and thunk against the tree. Christ. “You call me out here—out of the blue—to tell me that I’m ‘a wonder, and far too much fun,’” Rook says, mimicking John’s vaguely Southern cadence, “you practically beg me to hike you up against a tree, and that’s _business_.”

“I can’t afford to call it anything else, you--” John cuts himself off with a snarl, raking a hand back through his hair. “I’m flattered, Deputy, so I must also inform you that you don’t exactly _know_ me beyond what I’ve done to your buddy Hudson, and you _liking_ me won’t bode well for your Resistance friends, either.” John claims a small victory when he sees Rook flinch at the mention of Hudson.

“What would you have us do, Deputy? Really.” John continues, not noticing the almost-hysterical hitch in his voice, “Go fishing together? We get to sit on the pier so you can drink your fruity cocktails and tell me about your long day at work writing up _traffic tickets_? I get to take you home after somehow convincing my brothers not to cook you for dinner? I’m the one that _likes_ you, you fucking lemming, and all you’re going to do is throw yourself at Eden’s Gate, get yourself killed, and leave me standing here like I was supposed to fucking _do_ something about any of it!”

John’s chest heaves, his ribs feel like they’re a vice around his lungs. His cheeks are hot and wet, and his fists shake when the nausea rolls through him. It takes a couple of moments for Jupiter to actually speak, and John refuses to look at him—refuses to see whatever pitying or disapproving expression he may find.

“It doesn’t have to...be that way,” Jupiter attempts softly, taking a short step forward. “I don’t intend to die anytime soon, John.” John scoffs and cuts him off. He roughly shoves his sleeve back and forth over his face, clearing away tears of frustration.

“Oh, you’re going to. It’s _inevitable_ ,” John bites out, “you’ll be shot by a Chosen, you’ll be mauled by a cougar, you’ll fall from a cliff and break your goddamn neck. You’ll crash your helicopter, you’ll bleed out from some unlucky artery, or you’ll get thrown through a fucking windshield.” John’s just listing the deaths he _knows_ about. “This county won’t be your playground forever. If you want to _like_ me, you should just let Joseph--”

“I can’t do that, John,” Rook argues, but it sounds like a plea. Looks like one too, with his hand outstretched towards John’s and his eyes red-rimmed. “What...are we supposed to do if neither of us can throw in the towel?” He’s genuinely asking. Sounds lost. Well, if Hope County's all-blessed _hero_ doesn’t have the answers, John certainly fucking doesn’t. John sniffs petulantly and hooks one of his fingers on Rook’s despite his petty disposition. Rook’s just going to die again later, anyway. No use in being wrathful with him over things he has no memory of.

“Suffer endlessly, I suppose,” John answers, only half-joking. Envy isn't really one of John's frequented sins, but he is a little jealous of Rook’s ignorant bliss.

There’s a moment of silence in which John is tethered to Rook by a single finger. It feels like that’s all he’s holding onto his sanity with, too. He’s going to be stuck like this forever, with no real help from Joseph, Jacob, or God. His only real comfort is Hell in the flesh, but he’s so earnest and endearingly stubborn, it’s impossible for John to say ‘no’ to him at this point. All he can do is say ‘yes’ and pay the price for it.

“I don’t believe in endings like that,” Jupiter says, his usual conviction peering through the sallow, discouraged frown, “that’s not what I’m fighting for. I want to save everyone—save _you_.”

John looks up at that, eyes blown wide and fingers tightening around Rook’s. Rook has never phrased it like that before.

“Save me?” John asks, leaning in towards Rook without thinking about it. He bites the inside of his cheek—about to say something gentle, maybe—before some final, desperate, and cowardly wall slams down inside of John’s head. He reels back, yanking his hand away from Rook, and ignoring the way his shoulder throbs in pain when it bumps against the pine tree. He shakes his head and staggers in his haste to retreat—to get back to his truck.

Is it not the same song and dance he was given by his parents? Or by his brother, who still finds excuse after excuse to _deny_ him the salvation he apparently needs? And if _anyone_ has a chance of saving John’s poor imitation of a soul, it’s Joseph. John’s resolve has been clouded by over a month’s worth of repetition, but he was never closed off to the idea that Rook was placed before him as a deterrent; a distraction. Rook can’t possibly fucking save John if he’s going to pull him away from the only family he has left—the only people that will love him long after they emerge from their bunkers and into a new world.

Even if John isn’t welcome in their New Eden—even if Joseph deems him unworthy—at least John will be able to say that he _helped_ and that he tried for the sake of his brothers. If the Deputy’s cleansing is what Joseph wants, then John would be an awful brother to give up on that ideal. There’s just no way for John to be able to have his cake and eat it, too.

“John?”

Jupiter’s voice is forlorn. It tries to find purchase in the lonely clearing, tries to stick to John and make him feel guilty about turning his back on him. John pulls his glasses down over his eyes and doesn’t stop, merely continues his trek back to his vehicle.

“I’m not Joseph!” The Deputy shouts, far behind him now. His voice wavers, and John doesn’t dare look back to see the raw expression that will surely match the tone. “I don’t talk about how great I am at moving mountains! I just fucking move them!”

The Deputy’s distant anger is cut off by John climbing into his truck and slamming its door shut. John tells himself not to be a fucking baby and refuses to look in the rear-view; he violently pulls into drive and lets the tires kick up dirt in his haste to get back out onto the open road.

He screams his throat hoarse halfway back to the lodge. Ignores a couple new, randomized texts from his siblings. Locks himself in his room, in the dark, alone until the day resets.

  
  


The next morning, John throws himself into his work—the work that Joseph assigned to him. He ignores the Deputy’s same old texts and ignores the string that threatens to pull him back to Rook. His sole purpose is to help his brothers build a new sanctuary for believers. That’s it. If he were destined to be with Rook—if Jupiter were to have a space for him in his life, then John would have met him after he graduated instead of reuniting with Joseph. God would have given him something other than the miracle that was being able to see his brothers again.

Rook’s too late to sway John into joining his own flock. It was never going to work. John rolls up his sleeves, drives to his bunker, and continues to tell himself that he only started to kiss the Deputy out of desperation in the first place. His endless cycle be damned, John will try to steer himself back towards the proper path. Even if it's for one last, futile time.

  
  


At least, that’s what he tells himself as soon as a Blissed-out Deputy is offered to him, tied up like a gift. It’s a shame; this already feels like it’s not going to go John's way.

They’re currently in one of the bunker's rooms used for cleansing, and earlier this morning, John instructed his followers to hunt down the Deputy, Bliss him, and bring him back here for some much-needed correction.

“Nice of you to join us, Deputy,” John greets, deliberately not looking at Jupiter’s swaying form. His guards head back upstairs, and John occupies himself by going over the stained tools and blades lined up on his work desk. He mustn’t break character. Jupiter groans, but clearly can’t stand on his own, still sluggish and bound by the arms.

“What a way to answer my text,” Jupiter slurs, sounding mellow and resigned. “Could’ve jus’ told me it wasn’t funny.”

John almost chuckles, because the Deputy brings it out in him. He ignores the waves roaring in his ears, ignores the tightening of his throat, and swiftly grabs a random knife before whirling on Rook.

“It _wasn’t_ funny,” John sneers, cheeks heated, “It was proud and uninspired. Cocky and overdone. You can’t keep running from me, avoiding your Atonement. And that is why you are here.” Christ, his words apply to himself, as well. Hypocrite. John grabs Jupiter by the collar of his shirt and tears downward. Jupiter, unbalanced on his knees, topples to the floor and loses the rest of his shirt. John eyes his pale, battered chest. Slices of scar tissue in which hair no longer grows, patches of red from poison oak and bug bites.

“Wasn’t gonna run,” Jupiter mutters almost pleasantly. He blinks, heavy and slow. “Wanted to talk to you today.” John swallows. The Deputy seems to want to talk to him _every_ day. It’s why he’s always so open to meeting somewhere or chatting over the radio.

“To tempt me?” John asks. “To humor me? To _pretend_ to stomach me because you clearly know what’s _best_? I don't know how much longer I can abide that shit,” John’s frown is deep and his palm is sweaty, but he begins to carve into Rook’s chest nonetheless. He has to believe that Jupiter was lying yesterday, and every day before that, and continue with his work.

Rook hisses in pain, but his head lolls with weight—he isn’t really feeling the atonement. But that’s just as well. John isn’t sure if he could do this if Rook was completely sober. The knife makes uneven lines.

“Thought I was s’pposed to say ‘yes.’” Rook grits out. John trembles. Sweat beads on his brow as he works in the dim, red light.

“We’re far past that, what you agree to is no longer my concern. You have to _atone_ , I have to make it happen. Or we may be fucking stuck here forever.”

John is crying now, loathe as he is to acknowledge it. The tears fall from his lashes and mingle with the blood smearing across Rook’s pectoral. When John is finally done with his carving, it feels like he’s run a marathon.

‘Wrath.’

It’s what he tattooed on Rook that day at the church—the day this all started. Funny that John doesn’t really see him as an unrelenting force of rage anymore. Stubborn and resilient, for sure, but he’s never raised his hand or voice at John in anger. He’s just Jupiter. And in another life, maybe they would have met at a diner. Maybe they would have crossed paths in a courthouse. Maybe they would’ve been really good friends.

“Tell me about your sins,” John hisses, unable to wipe his eyes clear for all the blood on his hands. “Give them all to me so that I can finally release us both. Tell me about how you’ve ravaged this county, stripped us of our resources, and slaughtered our people like cattle.”

Jupiter’s boot scrapes across the floor—a clueless motion and nothing more. His eyes float around John’s face, but they’re unable to focus.

“Ran away from home to come here,” Jupiter whispers. “I haven’t seen my family in months. I lie to my friends; I act like I want to kill you all because it makes the pill go down easier. I couldn’t save a man in a fire. I left him in the rubble. I didn’t tie a tourniquet well enough, a woman lost her leg.” His sentences run together, but John hears every syllable with a fearful clarity.

“Quit it!” John snaps, backhanding Rook across the face before setting him to rights again. He grabs him by the jaw and forces him to make eye contact. The tears continue. It hurts to need this for Joseph's sake.

“Even half-conscious, you’re fucking bullheaded. Give me what Joseph wants to hear, and I won’t have to carve you like a turkey.” John refuses to beg. Also refuses to admit that he’s shaking, and that this isn’t coming easily to him anymore. Not with _him_.

“I care too much about my image. I’m vain. I try to look good. I save old ladies’ cats from trees ‘cause I want that to absolve me. If I think too hard about the people I’ve killed, I want Jacob to punish me. Sometimes I let Peggies go free even though they’ll prob’bly just kill someone later.”

“Jupiter,” John snarls. These aren’t the sins he wants to hear. Rook is making this all the more difficult.

“My self-preservation is non-existent. If I don’t value my body, is that a sin? Does God want me to throw myself into danger? What if it helps someone else?”

“ _Deputy_ ,” John jostles him. “Just do it properly!” His resolve is shattering once again. Maybe he was foolish to think that he could shrug off his obsession with the Deputy and follow through with the torment--the selfish rage--that came so much easier to him a couple months prior. 

“But I gotta fight God with my bare hands,” Jupiter wheezes quietly, “so I don’t really care if He forgives me or not. Way I see it? We all gotta live with each other, so we should do the forgiving.” Jupiter weakly shakes his head. “Can’t do that until I save you.”

John inhales sharply, pauses, then curls forward, giving in. Again. He crouches over Rook, clutching the tattered remains of his shirt with an iron grip. It’s certainly not a victory for Eden’s Gate.

“You’re a filthy liar,” John chokes out, his mouth brushing against Rook’s temple. Rook accepts this as easily as he did the carving. He angles his head to press his own mouth to John’s jaw.

“Am I the snake?” He asks, still sounding too keen for someone that isn’t entirely present.

“You’re the apple,” John huffs, almost laughing because the answer seemed too obvious.

  
  


John accepts the defeat for what it is—once his eyes open the following morning, he simply doesn’t move; with his eyes fixated on the ceiling, he contemplates how fragile his willpower has become in the face of Rook. He let Rook go after he was unable to complete the cleansing, and shortly after that, Rook must have been found by the followers in the bunker. John feels bad about essentially giving the green light for Rook’s death, but he wanted to make his shame disappear as quickly as possible—pretend his carving into that particular apple never happened.

John sighs through his nose as he watches the usual picture from Rook load into his messages. ‘Only if they ask nicely.’ He runs his tongue over his teeth and taps idly over the screen with his thumbs until he decides, on a whim, to open up Faith’s inbox.

‘I know you’ve contemplated leaving the Gate,’ he types without much preamble. His fingers tremble despite the fact that Joseph probably won’t hear about this conversation. Or even remember it if he does. Faith’s reply comes in quickly enough.

‘Contemplating sin is normal, it does not mean we are doomed.’

‘You don’t have to give me the fucking script. I just want us to be on the same page.’ John bites at the skin on his knuckle until the next reply appears.

‘What do you want me to say? I’m here for you if you don’t want the judgment your brothers would give.’ John’s brow creases and he types with renewed fervor.

‘I’m compromised. I know I am.’

‘Is this about the Deputy?’

John stares at the screen. Faith sends another message.

‘You have to love him, John.’

John closes his eyes, and gives in to the river in his mind’s eye. He can hear the babbling water, the soft ripple of fish rising to the surface. He feels his thighs, warm against the wood of the pier beneath him—also feels the warmth of a hand on the back of his neck, heated further by the afternoon sun. He hears Jupiter’s laughter, rough and wiry. He smells the alcohol mixed with pineapple on Jupiter’s mouth, and is relieved to find that it’s no longer alcohol that tempts him. It’s something else entirely.

John’s eyes sting, and he texts Faith the last reply she’ll receive today.

‘I do.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be John's last installment in this story, unless it becomes too long and I have to split it into two parts! We'll be seeing more of Jacob next, so stay tuned~ I hope you enjoyed this chapter, as turbulent as it was <3
> 
> Thank you guys so much for giving me kudos and for leaving such nice comments on my fic!! I appreciate the love, and seeing your encouragement really motivates me, especially since the FC5 community feels small these days. I honestly didn't expect this to take off like it did, and your input just makes me grin from ear to ear. Ty again for your patience!


	6. Chapter 6

After John dropped their conversation, Faith texted him a few more times; the messages consisted of vaguely encouraging sentiments that almost seemed too fond considering what their usual relationship is like. Her words ultimately helped him steel his nerves and make a decision.

Which is why he’s currently sitting at a table, just a few yards away from a slow-flowing river—the one John normally uses for his baptisms. His table is small and set with a white cloth. Placed carefully on the table, not far from John’s drumming fingers, are plates, candles, and an iced pitcher filled with tea (it barely has any sugar in it, which goes against John’s Southern sensibilities, but...well, it’s for Rook).

The sun is crawling downward beyond the pines, and while John knows the time frame he’s chosen is neither lengthy nor generous, he couldn’t imagine having this meeting with Rook under the sweltering afternoon sun. It would feel as if God’s eye was fixed on their rendezvous; John can no longer hide from himself or his intentions, but he’d rather not sweat like what he is (a sinner in church).

The sweating may come regardless; however, for John’s tugging at his shirt collar and eyeing the tree line, waiting for Jupiter’s arrival. He’d propositioned him earlier this morning with a phone call; had asked for a peaceful conversation in person. As usual, Rook acquiesced to the idea. But this time?

This time has to be different, even if it only ends up being different to John. He has to know that he’s put all of his cards on the table—all that’s left of them, at least.

When Rook’s broad frame finally enters the clearing, after what feels like three more months of waiting in molasses, John perks up and smiles without inhibition.

“Deputy,” he greets, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. Rook blinks openly at John’s intimate little setup, and astoundingly, he lets his guard down. It’s a visible shift. Rook slings his pack from over his shoulder and allows a mild look of bemusement to pass over his face. It’s like his danger radar is far from going off, and Rook no longer fears ambushes, surprise tattoos, or lectures accompanied by John stapling peoples’ skin to the nearest tree. It makes John feel--

“This is...” Rook trails off as he approaches the empty chair. He clearly has no idea what to say about the glass tray of eclairs and scones that accompany their silverware.

“A tactic that is slightly different from kidnapping, non-consensual tattooing, or emotional ransom,” John finishes for him, gesturing stiffly at the table.

“You really should’ve tried this a month ago,” Rook huffs a surprised laugh.

‘Or three months ago,’ John thinks to himself, trying not to be bitter about how he’s lost track of the days gone by. Rook takes a seat, and it still surprises John how _open_ the harbinger of doom is to humoring him. Like Rook always has a modicum of trust to spare, despite everything John’s inflicted upon him and his Resistance.

“I wish I had,” John replies after a second of thought, “because it would’ve saved me from so many _fucking_ mistakes, had I just... _listened_ to you. I kept thinking to myself, ‘surely the easiest way out is the sinful way out. It’s _supposed_ to be easy to give in to temptation!’ That’s why I resisted for so long—you and Joseph are equal in fucking measure, Rook. Neck in neck, this entire time thus far. Too hard to tell which of you is right and which of you is wrong.” John takes a deep breath and curls his fist into the pristine tablecloth.

“Maybe neither of you are either of those things,” he continues, “maybe you’re both fucking clueless and in need of therapy, just like the rest of us. And isn’t that the scariest thought? That neither of you speaks for God at all, and that the entirety of Hope County is dancing on strings that have nothing to do with the end of the world and everything to do with a bunch of territorial rednecks with _just_ enough charisma to keep the engine running.”

John heaves shakily, inhaling through his nose again before looking out at the river. He’s so close to being jaded, but like the silt in the freshwater, he’s simply carried along with the flow. Rook won’t judge him—at least not here, in this moment. Of course there are plenty of atrocities that Rook can and may still judge him for.

Rook sits quietly for a moment, squinting at John’s words and rubbing at the hooked scar over his nose with his thumb. He then nods very slowly.

“I don’t believe that Joseph hears God. But I _do_ know that’s what he believes, therefore it’s real enough. Me? I don’t believe that I hear God. God isn’t telling me what to do. I...this is my role now because it’s right, and nobody else will step up to the plate if I fall. So I can’t tell you what this war is for, objectively. Everyone’s fighting for their own reasons, and I really don’t think that I’ve deliberately _tempted_ you or anyone else. So I have to ask, John. What are _you_ fighting for?”

John, in this moment, is flayed alive and _seen_ —exposed to the forest and its birds, and to the rest of Hope County. He could wax poetic about how he owed Joseph and Jacob his loyalty, and how they will hold his love _infinitely._ He could cry about the state of the world and its soon-to-be end. He could bang his fists on the table and talk about revenge against those who have wronged him, even if they’re no longer around. He could take the moral high ground and preach like he usually does, about sin and atonement and being able to improve oneself and one’s community.

But these would all be constructs, at this point. They’re all justifications that he’s pitifully tried to run through his head in the past few months. Day after miserable day, amounting to the same end.

“My motivations have shifted—my entire compass has,” John explains beyond a dry throat, “I could tell you the cause, but I don’t have enough hours in the day, and I doubt you’d believe me.”

“Try me,” Jupiter challenges, resilient. John swallows, glances to the side, and pulls his hands down into his lap.

“I’ll just say that I’ve had...quite the numinous fucking experience, Deputy. If God is giving my brother visions, then perhaps I’m in the same boat. But whether or not it’s God’s doing doesn’t matter to me—you’ve given me my own visions. They’re hard to ignore now. And so I’d like to ask you for a favor.”

“A favor.” Rook repeats with an edge of skepticism. “What do I get for indulging you?”

“A ceasefire,” John answers concretely and without hesitation, leaning forward in his chair and resting his hands on the table. Rook’s eyes flash wide and his jaw shifts, but just as soon as he gives in to that little ray of hope, his wary sense of duty shuts it down. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

“You? Standing down? Cold days in Hell, and all that,” Rook’s upper lip curls, and John mourns the absence of his usual grin. John knows he’s being far too serious, and that Rook is dropping the banter and the wit accordingly. Before John can offer an explanation, Rook carries on.

“You would face a rejection so final from Joseph your head would _spin_ ,” Rook says with such firm intuition that he almost comes off as haughty. “I can’t even begin to guess if Jacob would be able to pick between the two of you. Eden’s Gate would suffer such a heavy blow, it’d almost have to fucking _eat itself_ to survive. All of the work you’ve done, all of the shit you and your brothers have had to drag each other through—Joseph’s plan, your utopia, your bunkers, your resources. All gone, and _you’d_ be responsible!”

“I know!” John shouts, cutting Jupiter off and shooting to his feet so quickly that his chair falls back. His eyes squeeze shut as if the gesture could block out Rook’s words; the same words that he’s already gone over in his head.

“You’ve threatened my friends, you’ve looted half of this fucking county, John!” Rook rises to his feet as well. “You’ve _tortured_ people. You beat Hudson so badly, she still can’t fucking sleep! You’re _bowing_ _out_ now? Why?!”

“ _It’s you_!” John shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at Jupiter, his face twisting up into a pained snarl. “Does it even matter what I tell you right now? That I—that I’m losing my mind, that I’m so fucking tired you couldn’t even pay me to care about our silos, or our planes, or our outposts? That I know so much shit about you now, it’s like I’ve known you my whole life, and I’m no longer what Joseph wants me to be?” John’s lower lip quivers minutely, but he can no longer bring himself to tear up over the Deputy. He softens his tone, lowers his voice, and once again stares out at the glittering river.

“If I have to live in this county forever; if this is the end of the road for me no matter what I choose, then I choose you.” The crescendo of anger, guilt, and sorrow is snuffed out all at once. The water still babbles and the crickets begin to trill as the sky gains an orange hue. Jupiter, once again haloed by the warm sunset, appears blank.

Another moment has to pass by before Jupiter seems to work up the will to step closer to John. He reaches out a hand, as if to touch John’s arm, but he ends up pulling back.

“...From the beginning, I’ve always wanted better for Hope County. I’ve wanted the fighting to stop—I’ve dreamed about you four laying down your arms and just...I don’t know,” Jupiter admits quietly, with an air of reverence. “But never once have I wanted you to have to abandon your family...I read Joseph’s book, you know.” He adds. John resists the urge to roll his eyes and bite out, ‘yes, you tell me every week.’ Instead, he sighs and rolls his shoulders, trying to get rid of the stiffness there.

“I’m not abandoning them. Even for you, I won’t. But you clearly seem to have a vision for Eden’s Gate; if Jacob and Joseph can be included in that vision, then I will do my best to convince them that it’s...worth a miserable fucking shot.”

Rook levels him with another look, and John tries not to act too petulantly about being under scrutiny. He knew what he was signing up for—he knew that such a crucial proposition wouldn’t be met with Rook’s usual, arms-length fondness. Here, he is not Jupiter, but rather Wrath. The very thing that Hope County looks to and depends on in its time of need. A god fitting of his namesake, with a stature reminiscent of rumbling thunder and a glare that’s equally tempestuous. John could worship this. It’d come easily to him. Perhaps it already has. This god could love him, John thinks, and he knows that the God his parents tormented him for never graced him in the way that Jupiter has.

“...You’re serious,” Jupiter utters. There’s the plush sound of his mouth opening and closing, and John shifts his weight from foot to foot. Their eyes meet, and Jupiter speaks again.

“What’s the favor?”

When the words leave Jupiter’s mouth, John’s knees threaten to buckle. It was an acceptance that he would’ve been willing to go through several months’ repetition in order to achieve, but he’s managed to gain it on his first try. John allows himself the victory and confesses.

“I want to be reborn, since I’m devoting myself to something else. I need to be cleansed,” John’s eyes slowly drag over to the riverbed, and from his peripheral he can tell that Jupiter looks over, too. “Baptized.”

He hears more than sees Jupiter’s boots shift in the dirt and his hands rub together, as if he’s washing his fingers free of anxiety. He nods a few times when John looks back up at him, and then he holds out his hand.

“Okay,” Jupiter agrees. John only hesitates for a split second before stepping towards Jupiter and allowing him to take his hand. They walk down to the riverbank, stepping carefully and with Jupiter only leading by a foot or so. The atmosphere is gentle, as is Rook. John’s pricey oxfords and his tailored slacks become one with the water. Here, John breathes easier despite the chill. They wade together until the water comes up to their hips.

The light from the sunset filters through the pines; it dances over the two of them as the swaying leaves alter its rays. Jupiter is now grasping John in such an intimate embrace, with one hand firmly gripping his arm and the other cradling the back of his head.

“Will you display your sins for everyone to see?” Jupiter asks, his eyes never straying from John’s. “Will you atone?” John’s hands come up to grip the fabric of Jupiter’s shirt like a lifeline.

“ _Yes_.”

And then John is being tipped back; he knows Jupiter won’t drop him or keep him under for too long. John closes his eyes and ignores the coldness of the water as it engulfs him, swallows him up, accepts him. He hears nothing momentarily and focuses on the solidity of Jupiter—accepts that he will emerge from the river as a new person.

It’s over as quickly as it started. John briefly gasps for air, jarred by the shock of the temperature, and his hair falls over his brow, now mostly free from its gel. He blinks hard several times and tries to refocus on Jupiter, who is now clearly _smiling_ at him with such earnestness and pride it almost makes John buckle again.

Jupiter holds John close and doesn’t seem to care that he’s soaking now, too. He laughs like he’s been freed from some monstrous burden, and John knows the feeling; the laughter is contagious. They embrace in a way that makes John feel like he’s found something he’s lacked his entire life. They cling to each other until the water becomes too cold, at which point they walk back to the grass, unhurried and calm.

Vaguely, the sunset has become more of an omen to John. It represents an end that’s drawing near, because no matter what John _thinks_ he’s accomplished, God may yet strip this day from him as casually as all the rest. But it will still be worth it, for Jupiter glows with a crooked grin and a clear sense of progress set in his wide shoulders. If John has to repeat another day, he will gladly orchestrate it just like this.

Jupiter opens his mouth to speak, pauses, then dives for the backpack he left by their table. John hears the click of a pistol before he sees Jupiter’s arm swing in a wide arc and aim at something just beyond John’s shoulder. John whirls around only to see an unwelcome guest standing not far from where John parked his truck. John’s stomach twists into a sinking pit, and he just nearly screams at himself for his tremendous fuck-up.

It’s _that_ follower—the one John shoots every single fucking morning. Save for today, clearly, because John was too caught up in Faith’s texts, too distracted by his plans. Such a simple oversight resulting in the grim and inevitable failure of Jupiter’s heart and brain.

“Brother John,” the follower speaks.

“Don’t say a _fucking_ word!” John shouts, glaring with all the rage that still comes to him so easily, all of the vehement darkness from his childhood, from his days in college. It’s like riding a bike. His lip curls involuntarily, his fists tighten.

“If you even _think_ about pulling that trigger, you won’t get to worry about Jacob or the Father—I’ll make you so goddamn miserable, you’ll wish you’d never joined my flock!” John snarls, taking a step forward. Despite the sincerity of his threat, this wayward sheep seems unshaken. He seems as devoted to his notions as Jupiter; he clearly believes his task is just.

“He’s the Devil, Brother John. I don’t want you to be exiled from New Eden. You shouldn’t have to get in trouble over this. I know temptation is so hard to resist, but I can remove that temptation.”

“Fuck you,” John sneers, “you’re out of line. It doesn’t matter if you shoot him or not now, you are _never_ leaving the confessional.”

“If that’s what’s best,” the follower replies, serene and undeterred. “The Father will thank me.”

“The Father won’t know you exist,” says John. “So follow your orders.”

Clearly the wrong thing to say, because this man’s determined that his _orders_ come from Joseph—from God. John’s orders are only secondary in comparison, and so a new look of resolve passes over his gaunt face.

It happens in a split second, and John’s decision is so visceral, so instinctual, he doesn’t even register that he’s chosen anything at all.

“John--” comes out of Jupiter’s mouth, shaken yet heated, just as the shot rings out.

John’s ears ring and his vision blurs when he hits the dirt. He just barely recognizes another four rounds being fired. John hisses, grits his teeth, and as soon as he lifts a clumsy hand to look for the cause of his disorientation, Jupiter is in his field of vision.

Jupiter crouches over him and he’s immediately pressing a rag he’s pulled from God-knows-where onto what John is now too aware of; a wound beneath his ribs. In the blurred background, John can make out the limp body of his follower, now with a concoction of gore where his face used to be.

“John? John, are you listening to me?” Jupiter asks, frustrated.

“Unfortunately,” John groans, tilting his head back in the grass and blinking hard. All at once, the hole in his abdomen is on fire, unforgiving and far too wet. Jupiter’s hands _sound_ wet when he adjusts his grip and slides his fingers together clumsily.

“You shouldn’t have fucking done that,” Jupiter scolds. He straddles John’s legs and presses down harder on his wound. John gasps in pain, his hand lashing out to grip the bottom of Jupiter’s jacket. “Stepping in front of me, are you _insane_? I was handling it!” Jupiter is still rambling.

Oh. Is that what John did? It was like deciding to breathe—he just...didn’t decide. It happened.

“Deputy,” John says with as much fondness as he can muster in his current state, “I’m not your frail, budding virgin. Let’s not forget how we got here.” Jupiter snorts, but it’s an aborted and pitiful sound. Fret is taking over his entire energy, and John doesn’t want to look up and find out why.

“I don’t,” Jupiter babbles on, “I can’t—I’ll have to call someone.”

“Don’t,” John grimaces, moving his hand to grab Jupiter’s soaking wrist. His current haziness doesn’t help, but John can’t think of a single person that’d benefit the situation. Who would Jupiter call? Drubman and Boshaw? Fucking Pastor Jerome? Contacting either of his brothers would be a nightmare, and the fallout would slice their newfound, tentative alliance in half before it truly even started.

“What a stupid fucking decision,” Jupiter’s voice hitches. When John opens his eyes, he sees that Jupiter’s are full to bursting with tears; they look like the Henbane river like this.

“All I did was confess,” John’s mouth twitches up into a weak smirk, “At least I don’t have to see you die today.” John’s sudden weightiness keeps Jupiter from asking what he means by that. All at once, John loses his grip on Jupiter and his head falls heavily back into the grass.

“John,” Jupiter hisses fiercely. Even with his eyes closed, John understands the feeling of Jupiter’s shadow looming over his face, and of messy fingers cradling his cheek. Once again, it feels like melodramatic bad luck—that today of all days, Rook lacks a medical kit. That John, despite his lungs being unharmed, is sapped so quickly of energy. That he may not get to cycle into another day in which he and Jupiter are on the same page. That this sunset feels so different from all the others prior, yet still feels so very sad.

The last thing John feels is a warm, firm press to his forehead.

  
  


  
  


John’s journey to consciousness is stilted and lazy. It’s like he’s back in college, struggling to recover from a catastrophic weekend while anticipating the impending midterm. Luckily, he doesn’t currently feel the tell-tale fog of alcohol, but he does indeed have a mouth so dry he could almost tear up from that alone. In spite of his blurry vision, John wills himself to move; he turns his head and reaches out to the left out of sheer habit, automatically looking for his night stand even though there’s no guarantee he’s in his bedroom.

Luck wins out—his night stand is where it normally is, and his sheets begin to feel familiar. John groans and curls forward in a pitiful attempt to sit up, only to gasp out in pain.

“Fucking Christ,” he hisses, rubbing his eyes clear. He throws his blankets to the side and notes the cream-white bandages wrapped around his bare middle; they’re thorough, clean, and tightly bound. Not an amateur rush job.

Still unclear and in a waking state, John eagerly grabs the glass of water that’s always present in the morning. He downs it all in a few gulps, and when he’s done, his eyes roll to glance at the bedside clock.

10:12.

John blinks.

10:12.

Not 8:38.

John blinks harder; his brain finally registers what he’s seeing. His glass drops to the floor—it cracks but doesn’t shatter.

“What,” John says aloud, awed. He rights himself as quickly as possible without exacerbating his wound. Next, he climbs out of bed and tentatively pulls on a bathrobe. He can only limp stiffly, but he feels neither nauseated nor dizzy, so he assumes it’s alright for him to move.

John glances around for his cellphone, but once he determines that it’s nowhere in sight, he decides to head downstairs and search for further clues. Because there’s no way the day has passed, not truly. There’s no way the date has changed. There’s no way his wound is real, and that yesterday he really did step in front of his brothers’ greatest adversary and take a bullet for him. There’s no way they agreed to some sort of foolhardy alliance. It can’t be true, it can’t be that God’s finally decided that John’s been tormented enough—that he’s been able to _repent_ in some manner. It’s such a cruel joke, because if that were the case, it’d mean that he _always_ would have had to fail his brothers in some capacity in order to break free.

But it may yet be true. John remembers everything so vividly, particularly how incredible it felt when Rook held him in the water and let him be born anew.

So as not to hurt himself, John carefully makes his way down the grand staircase. There aren’t any guards in sight—none stationed inside the lodge and none milling about on the porch, as far as John can see. John only hears the vague, distant sound of music and the padding of his own bare feet on the wood beneath him. He’s about to make his way to the kitchen when something so minuscule yet contrary catches his eye.

The answering machine on his foyer table is blinking red with a notification; it hasn’t done that once in the past few months of repetition. It sticks out like a sore thumb in the scenery that John’s brain has grown so accustomed to. Too stricken to do anything else, the current state of things be damned, John presses the playback button and revels in the machine telling him that his voicemail was received after midnight.

John’s breath hitches when he hears Joseph’s dulcet, loving tone croon to him.

“After all the atonements, after all the confessions, after all you’ve done for me and Eden’s Gate; it’s not enough. Is it, John?”

John’s eyes sting promptly at the implication. He’s known as much for perhaps a year now—since they moved to Montana.

“Cast away your past,” Joseph urges, “you need to open up your heart. You need to see that there is more love all around you. All the pain and suffering you’ve spread will not help us in the long run.” John clenches his fists and wavers somewhat. But he listens. He always, always listens when his brother speaks.

“These actions will only feed the sin inside you. It will grow stronger. It will convince you to do wicked things. Those you scar too deeply—they will heal. They will become carriers of your sin. They will spread that sin to others.” Joseph has been to John’s bunker. Numerous times. He knows of what’s been done to those who resisted confession.

“I have seen your death in a vision,” Joseph says, and John’s eyes widen. “You’re destined to be slayed by your own sin. It will come back around in a new form, it’s only a matter of _when_. I’ve seen you die young. I’ve seen you die old. The difference between the two outcomes depends on how much love you let into your heart.”

John thinks of his follower—the one that would never listen to John’s orders no matter how much he begged. Surely such a follower has suffered by John’s hand. Has let John’s sin, his _wrath_ , fester in his own body. And John was the one—Rook was the one—to suffer consequences. It’s paint-by-numbers for Joseph. He speaks because he has seen it all, and John has been the fool. Joseph is so often right about so many things.

“I pray that you hear this before it’s too late,” Joseph continues, and for a split second his voice wavers with hesitation, as if he’s afraid that he already _is_ too late. “I want to see you become an old man in the paradise we’ve prepared for. I love you, brother,” Joseph says, soft and fierce through the tinny hum of the machine. John’s hands shake minutely, and his eyes still water.

“I love you,” Joseph repeats before the machine cuts off with a beep, the message complete.

John comes to such a solid realization, it’s like hitting a brick wall; he never would have received this message on a cyclical day. It was destined to arrive after midnight, and in so many various scenarios, John imagines that Joseph really could have been too late.

Really _would_ have been too late.

If that very first day had gone according to John’s plan—if time hadn’t reset itself, and if John’s followers hadn’t arrived in time after his and Rook’s dogfight, John could have surely ended up dead. Rook could have shot him, stabbed him, strangled him. Rook _would_ have, too, no matter how dependent he was on the concept of _almost_. Rook would have done anything to protect his people, and John would have failed because Rook has an _abundance_ of the very love that Joseph claims is necessary for success.

John would have died. He would have died without hearing Joseph tell him that he loves him. He would have died without knowing that the Deputy of Hope County is warm, solid, and bombastic. That he has a wiry cackle that can be heard across the river. He would have died without telling Jacob that he’s sorry for being so high-maintenance. Would’ve died without ever seeing the paradise beyond the collapse. John would have only known the quiet and the anger. He would’ve died knowing Wrath, but without knowing Jupiter. Or even himself, perhaps.

“You’re not supposed to be up yet,” comes a new voice from the dining room doorway. John looks up and decides not to wipe his eyes clean, because it’s just Faith standing there, and he doesn’t mind what she thinks as much as he used to.

“And you’re supposed to be across the Henbane,” John observes, a note of confusion in his voice. He ties the belt of his bathrobe to cover his boxers and bandages. She only looks amused at this motion.

“Jupiter called me, and I couldn’t refuse his request for help,” Faith says simply. Her golden hair almost shimmers from the sunlight pouring through the windows. As usual, she is barefoot.

“Jupiter?” John is still bemused. Nobody else is on a first-name basis with Rook—not within the Gate.

“At this point, he and I are good friends, you know,” Faith turns her leg back in forth in a juvenile move before she pads back towards the kitchen. “Come on, he’s going to be very happy to see you.” She looks over her shoulder with an afterthought.

“Don’t worry—Brother Jacob and the Father don’t know about this. I did quite a bit of lying and told the Father that you have a mild cold. He insisted on checking up on you, but I told him I had it taken care of and that he was needed elsewhere.” Faith then disappears beyond the dining room archway and John hobbles after her, trying as quickly as possible to register all that she’s saying.

When John emerges into the kitchen, Rook is there; he’s seated at the table with a plate of breakfast that looks like it hasn’t really been touched. He’s tapping away furiously on his personal phone, an urgent crease set between his eyebrows, the scar on his bridge curling towards his eye. The little radio on the counter that John sometimes uses for Joseph’s sermons is currently playing very quiet music.

“Jupiter,” Faith grabs Rook’s attention, and when Rook sees John, he just about leaps out of his chair. He’s in John’s space before he can really compute it. Jupiter is touching, caressing, and pouting, even. His eyes rove over John with such familiar concern that John is almost too awkward to handle it.

“Deputy,” John attempts to placate, not understanding the sudden wave of _everything_. The sudden doubling down of every emotion that Jupiter wears on his sleeve.

“John, are you alright? Should you sit? I have to tell you—we, we have to tell you, I have to talk—are you sure you’re okay? What medications can he take?” Rook asks, looking to Faith briefly before his eyes are glued on John’s face again.

“I’m sure Brother John has bounced back from things more dire than this,” Faith appeases. Her dress flows as she smoothly pulls out more silverware; she seems very familiar with John’s kitchen despite how rarely she’s visited. Not that John extends many invitations.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” John grimaces, somewhat overwhelmed by the sudden flood of stimuli. “What are you—you’re different,” John blurts out all at once, that last, concrete thought overriding any others he had. He’s so desperately pinned by the look in Jupiter’s eyes, he can’t help _but_ notice the change.

It’s in the way Jupiter's touch is tender along his biceps. It’s in the way Jupiter’s eyes are watering once again. It’s in a different crook of his laughter lines. It’s like he’s looking at John with so much more recognition and familiarity than usual, and that’s when the rug is pulled out from under John.

“ _I remember_ ,” Jupiter insists with the joyous fervor of a groom on his wedding day; of a man that won the lottery, of a man that found his way back home after months of searching.

John swallows hard and staggers somewhat; Jupiter eases him down to sit in the nearest chair, and John can’t keep his eyes off the titan before him.

“Wh—what do you mean, you remember?” John asks, now clutching at Jupiter’s hands like he’ll vanish at any moment. Jupiter’s grin splits even wider, and John didn’t think such a thing was possible.

“I remember _everything_!” Jupiter confides, practically vibrating with his own energy. “Every day, John—every day we spent together, every day you tried.”

“And every _other_ day?” John asks, feeling almost nauseated when he thinks of the planes and the knives and the shouting. Jupiter only pulls his hand free in favor of cradling the side of John’s face.

“And all the days you didn’t think you tried hard enough,” Jupiter’s grin softens and his eyes become hooded with what John believes is understanding. It’d be embarrassing and John would accuse him of condescension if the idiot didn’t smell like his own shampoo—like he showered in the lodge unbeknownst to John. John closes his eyes and inhales deeply, leaning into Jupiter’s touch.

“I’m still not what you need me to be—I don’t think I can ever be that,” John admits in the quietest whisper. Faith only hums with the radio, ignoring their presence.

“I’ll take what you are now over what you were when I came to arrest Joseph. That’s all,” says Jupiter. He then tilts his head back and forth and sighs. “It won’t be easy for your people. It won’t be easy for my people. But...well, but.” Jupiter shrugs a shoulder. John’s eyes open then flicker over to Faith.

“...What...exactly have you told her?” John asks. Faith, sensing permission to re-enter the conversation, turns once more and sets a new plate on the table in front of John.

“He hasn’t had to tell me much. We’ve gone through what you have already. The strange reversals of time, I mean,” Faith explains easily, occupying herself with pouring a glass of orange juice and setting a fork on John’s plate. She and Jupiter exchange a familiar look—like they’re friends—and John gapes not unlike a fish.

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?” John demands, looking back and forth between his not-sister and his Deputy.

“Before I came to Holland Valley, I was devoting a lot of my time and energy to clearing out the Henbane,” says Jupiter, “the same thing happened to me there. I just kept dying.”

“You didn’t think to _mention_ this? At all? Not a single day we spent together?” John demands, trying and failing not to sound angry. Jupiter is unperturbed.

“I didn’t remember any of it. It’s like as soon as I crossed the river into your territory, it all left my mind. But now it’s all taking up so much space; she and I fought so many times. Faith was so desperate to prove herself to Joseph, to not end up being cast aside. She did everything she could to get me to give up or join. You have to know that she tried as hard as you did, fought till she couldn’t.”

“I think you know what he’s getting at,” Faith interrupts primly, still not looking up from her tasks, “he’s quite a stubborn mule, we’re all too aware.” She gestures towards Rook. She seems to be at peace with what Rook is saying, but perhaps a bad memory is putting that downward quirk on her mouth.

“She...well, here we are,” Jupiter clearly thinks better of what he was going to say and cuts himself off. But John can surmise, can read between the lines. Faith must have made the same decision he did, in the end. Jupiter looks at Faith with clear respect and affection. She probably threw herself on the line to save him, or at least some part of him. If she has any scars from the experience, they aren’t immediately visible.

John’s accusatory glance turns to Faith.

“So he didn’t remember. What’s your excuse for not telling me about this?”

At this, Faith finally looks up, and her shoulders are set with a sturdy disposition. Her eyes seem remorseful, however.

“I did try to tell you. I texted, I called, I even sent a letter—none of it worked, none of them went through. And the next thing I knew...it was today. It was like,” Faith pauses, frowns, then continues, “it was like God didn’t want you to know. That’s what it was like.”

So it’s as John guessed; the days he repeated and the conversations he had weren’t real for anyone else. Faith has no recollection of his turmoil. For her, it’s just been a strange twenty-four hours. The calendar is normal.

“God,” John repeats, because this entire scenario, these dire circumstances; they all seem divine in the worst way. There’s a pregnant pause among the three of them before Faith finally shrugs.

“Whatever it may be, John. I’m not sure I want to know.”

Another pause in which they all look uncomfortable before Faith’s smile returns, as does her usual air of serenity.

“Nonetheless, I’m happy with where we are now. I do worry for brother Jacob and the Father, but Jupiter’s path seems to be righteous. I trust him.”

“Yeah,” John agrees without really paying attention. There are far too many unanswered questions threatening the integrity of his skull, but John knows he can’t afford to get lost in them, at least not right now. He takes Jupiter’s hand and runs his thumb back and forth over his knuckles.

“Faith, would you mind?” Jupiter asks. Out of his peripheral, John sees her nod and take her graceful leave from the kitchen. The radio still croons in the background.

The Baptist and the Deputy stare at each other for a moment, sizing each other up one last time, attempting to find the answers to unasked questions in tired eyes. John can’t be rid of the feeling that the prize he’s obtained after such a long struggle is about to depart far beyond his reach.

“Your path,” John mutters, licking his chapped lips, “I hope it doesn’t consist of what I think it does. Not after what I’ve gone through.” Jupiter sighs through his nose and leans forward, resting his forehead against John’s. John shudders.

“I’ve taken the Henbane. And now I have the Valley. I feel...” Jupiter stops then starts again. “The Resistance has to move on to the Whitetails.”

“He’s,” John tries to articulate, but an aborted sob surprises him. He clears his throat, closes his eyes even tighter, and tries not to think about how dearly he loves his eldest brother. “He will not be like us,” John says, stating a sad fact, referring to himself and Faith.

“And you’re unlike Faith,” Jupiter consoles, brushing a hand back through the hair at John’s nape. “I’ll be fine.”

“He’s not going to understand, it may never work, whatever it is you’re trying to do.”

“I’m just winging it,” Jupiter offers a breathy chuckle. John swats him in the side.

“Really? I never got that impression,” John grits out, his mouth writhing as he tries not to give this naive behemoth a smile. Jupiter laughs out loud. It’s such a wonderful sound; John would keep it in a bottle and never let it go, if he could.

  
  


The next morning is so very difficult for John. He was able to share a bed with Jupiter, though the nanny wouldn’t so much as stick a hand down his pants for fear of harming him. Still, he was a furnace, and moreover a comfort that John’s never really known. The beds from his childhood were always small and cold, and they always carried the implication of punishment—a beating, starvation, a screaming match. This was everything but. Jupiter’s rhythmic breathing made the lodge feel like a home.

They conversed until the early hours of the morning, articulating their mistakes and misunderstandings over the course of many, many cycles. Two jarringly different perspectives, to say the least, but John’s just glad that he’s the only one hoarding these memories like a form of self-flagellation. Now they are all shared treasures, despite his regrets. He has the final product; a Jupiter that’s comprised of all the things he learned about him, and now Jupiter has a John that he really understands, one that he’s profoundly connected with.

Which is why it’s so hard to look at Jupiter now, here on the riverbank of the Whitetails border. Faith is here with them, wishing to share in the goodbyes, though she stands a couple yards back out of respect for John and Jupiter’s unique...everything.

Jupiter’s boots are sunken into the moist sand, and John stands perhaps a foot above him on the raised ledge. They hold each other’s hands, and John has to resist the childish urge to point out that he’s currently taller than the hero of Hope.

“You're mine,” John mutters bitterly, unwilling to shed even one more tear for the Deputy this fucking month. The ‘and now you’re leaving,’ goes unspoken. Jupiter hears it nonetheless.

“I’ll be back,” says Jupiter, fiercely determined yet with a stupidly optimistic grin on his face. It’s the patented one, surely. It must be what he uses to get away with so much bullshit with Armstrong and Kim Rye.

“Only a day,” John glares, not afraid of threatening Rook.

“Barely even a blink,” Jupiter winks, hooking their pinkie fingers together in a promise. He reaches upward, braces one foot on the bank, and plants a firm kiss to John’s mouth. He’s pulling away far too soon, and before John knows it, he’s watching his religion make its way across the river.

No tripping and breaking his neck, no random gunshots, no haphazard buck to impale him on its fucking antlers.

It must be like magic; must be God or _something_ , because once Jupiter’s feet are in Whitetail turf, he doesn’t look back at John. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t shout a farewell. He strides forward with his back to his new companions like he was heading in that direction all along. Like he just started his day that way. Like it’s a hard reset.

John audibly chokes but he steels himself otherwise. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he’s grateful when Faith comes up behind him and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“He’s Jacob’s problem now,” John jokes weakly, still managing a huff of laughter. Jupiter’s silhouette disappears beyond the trees.

Somehow, over the rush of the river, John knows he hears him whistling a tune that’s been tied to John’s ribs since he moved to Hope County.

 _We’ll meet again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your patience, i hope you enjoyed the final john-centric chapter!!  
> there may be a couple of typos in this one, but i'll come back in and edit it later, i just wanted to get this published asap!!  
> as usual, i really appreciate your kudos, and comments make my day :3
> 
> Next, Jacob's pov will take over!! definitely looking forward to this one bc his dynamic with rook is so interesting ;A; goodbye for now, john!!


	7. Chapter 7

"Don't you find it ironic that everyone you try to help winds up worse off? Eli...Pratt...Tragedy just follows you. If you really wanted to keep people safe...be a hero...You'd just off yourself. Safer for everyone that way."

  
  


Jacob’s words cut out, no longer echoing through the valley once his final radio tower is set ablaze. The Deputy is on such a rampage, it’s a sight to behold. Jacob huffs to himself, smirking; his movements are unhurried and unworried as he adjusts the scope of his rifle. He settles into position, his torso nestled almost comfortably against the boulders at the mountain’s peak. It’s such a good position, Jacob figures it’s as close to Heaven as he’ll ever get.

Sucking his teeth and squinting through his scope, he allows himself to become absorbed by the feeling of his gun in the crook of his shoulder, the feeling of the grass shuffling against his pants. The wind at such a high altitude mixing with the howling of his Judges and the hollers of his Chosen farther down the peak, facing the Hero of Hope County head on. 

Jacob watches carefully, lining his cross-hairs up with the Deputy’s blood-splattered face. It’s contorted with unfiltered rage. What a beauty—a pure specimen, the master class. The gold standard to which all other miserable failures are compared to. Jacob is proud of this creation, this thing that he has built and molded with his own two, burned hands. The Deputy is a predator, ripping through flesh and bone, screaming so that all—including God—may hear. Not that God is present, much less forming a proper opinion of Jacob and his mountains.

Jacob’s finger twitches imperceptibly, and a shot cracks off, popping through the field below and barely missing the sweat-matted hair on the Deputy’s head. Wild and untamed, the Deputy’s eyes almost seem to meet Jacob’s own through his scope, despite being so far away. The wily thing looks so pissed, Jacob resists grinning again. With renewed vigor, the Deputy lunges forward and lodges a crowbar into a Chosen’s throat. Where he got the crowbar from, Jacob hasn’t a clue. Inventive.

Wolves yap angrily as they pursue the almighty Rook, but Rook is a mean shot, and he unloads clips into the Judges until they’re no longer standing. It’s such a gruesome affair, with never-ending men charging forward just because Jacob said so, only to meet their ends because of a single man that hasn’t eaten in days.

Only him.

Jacob inhales, exhales, and fires again. He misses this time, too, as Rook drops behind a boulder to reload his own rifle. Jacob outright laughs at Rook’s tenacity when he registers a bullet finding its home in a tree not three feet from his vantage point. Bark splinters and Jacob wonders if he can take _all_ of the credit for making the Deputy such a good marksman under pressure. Perhaps there was always an animal inside of the Deputy’s ribs, waiting for the opportunity to burst forth into the world.

He has to remind himself not to care too much if Rook finds his way up the hill and to his hiding spot. An end is inevitable, and Joseph’s predictions will come to pass. Rook will have come this far kicking and screaming only to find that he’s played right into Joseph’s hands. If Jacob dies in the process, so be it. It’s what he signed up for. It’s what he _vowed_ to do. He only exists as a shield for his brothers, as a wall, as a guardian, and if he has fulfilled his purpose just as the Deputy has, he is fine with an honorable end.

“Come on,” Jacob mutters, finding Rook’s face through his scope again, “come finish what you started,” he urges, his heart hammering with the adrenaline, with the knowledge of what may be coming. If he doesn’t miss this time, well…

But what Jacob sees in his cross-hairs gives him pause, and makes a crease form between his eyebrows.

“What?” He whispers to himself, watching as the Deputy suddenly stands still, throws down his rifle, and spreads his bloodied palms in the air above his shoulders. The hairs on the back of Jacob’s neck stand up—the look on the Deputy’s face is sad. It looks like he’s dead on his feet but not for reasons Jacob can name; not because he’s put that bastard through the ringer these past few weeks. It’s like he’s looking right at Jacob, or right through Jacob.

Jacob’s finger—reflexively, almost—eases off the trigger due to sheer bemusement, but as soon as he does this, a Judge comes into view and tackles the Deputy with full force. It’s as large as that idiotic lug is, and it knocks him into the dirt, its maw closing firmly around Rook’s throat. Jacob’s breath hitches and he pulls back from his scope, unwilling to process such a deliberate failure on Rook’s part. Jacob swallows hard and leans back down to peer through the glass again, but he--

  
  


Jacob eyes his alarm clock with bleary vision. It’s 6:15 in the morning, and ever since he’s returned to the States, he’s never woken up any later than this precise moment. His internal clock is so finely tuned, he no longer requires an actual buzzer.

His sense of self is currently wavering; he typically feels this way after waking from a nightmare, unsure of whether or not he’s in a desert, about to be ambushed by a rogue unit. But he certainly lacks the shivering hands and wild panic associated with such dreams and memories, so Jacob shakes his head and sits up, getting his bearings.

Jacob would argue that he never really _dreams—_ unlike most, he lacks the disorienting, whimsical state in REM. Not once since he’s moved to Montana has he dreamed about the county, his mission, or the Deputy. The concept doesn’t sit quite right with Jacob, so he chooses to ignore it. Getting out of bed, he begins his morning.

Funnily enough, the routine that ensues feels like it’s already occurred, and not in the sense that it’s similar to his normal regimen. The push-ups, the brushing of his teeth, the straight-edge shave of his jaw, the text messages from his siblings. It just sets Jacob’s senses on an odd alert with a yellow warning sign.

‘You should chase the Deputy back to the Valley.’

Jacob blinks at the vague text from John. It has absolutely nothing to do with the last few texts in their chat log.

‘Why on Earth would I do that?’ Jacob responds. He licks his teeth and huffs, shoving his phone back into his jacket pocket. Since day one, John has been _intrigued_ by their opponent, and Jacob is sure that Joseph wouldn’t approve of their baby brother’s specific brand of _vigor_. Not to mention John’s attempts at coercing or cleansing the Deputy have been less than effective thus far—Jacob believes it’s best to keep John away from the inevitable shaming, and keep Joe on what passes for a leash a little while longer. He can control neither Joe’s proclamations nor his view of John, but he can help appease the cause.

Besides, Jacob has been doing a fine job of conditioning the Deputy these past couple of weeks. It’s all going according to plan. The harder Rook’s pulled against his bondage in the Whitetails, the easier it became for Jacob to turn that spitfire against Eli and the goddamn Militia.

Speaking of, today’s the day he’ll be orchestrating the final blow to that embarrassing Resistance. Maybe all of the recent planning is what triggered his not-quite-a-dream. A pale vision of what’s to come, what the day has in store for him in regards to the Deputy and his own success.

Stepping out of his bedroom and into the Vet Center proper, Jacob is immediately greeted by a tense-looking Pratt holding a clipboard.

“Peaches,” Jacob grumbles, content and with a lazy, upward quirk of his mouth. Pratt audibly swallows and nods.

“Brother Jacob, I’ve come with the morning report.”

“Let’s hear it,” Jacob permits, beginning his easy stroll down the hallway. Pratt follows, keeping just a mere pace behind him, like he was taught.

“The Deputy and two others were spotted last night interfering with a convoy; they managed to free some of our latest recruits and obtain a cache of weapons.”

“Hm,” Jacob grunts. The same thing happened the night before last. It’s to be expected.

“Another outpost was taken under siege as well. The Baron Lumber Mill, to be exact. The Deputy has already stationed a hefty force there, and we would need double the numbers to retake it with minimal casualties,” Pratt continues. Jacob feels his eyebrow twitch. Without much thought, he snatches the clipboard away from Pratt and eyes the papers critically.

“This is the same goddamn report as yesterday, Pratt,” Jacob sneers. He knows, because it’s not like the lumber mill could be taken _twice_. When he scans over the rest of the hand-written items, he knows for certain that Pratt told him all of this information _yesterday_ morning.

“Did your last _punishment_ knock a screw loose?” Jacob isn’t angry, per se, but this is an inconvenience, and it shaves several minutes off his day’s plan. Pratt’s done far worse, and the pitiful mutt is running on fumes. Still, a fuck up is a fuck up. “I can’t believe I’m having to repeat myself this late in the game,” Jacob lets his eyes rove over Pratt with plain distaste. Sweat appears on Pratt’s forehead.

“Brother Jacob, I promise that these are the latest updates; I _just_ got a radio call about the Mill two hours ago. It’s all been dated accordingly, I haven’t been given any other papers.” Pratt knows that Jacob doesn’t tolerate anyone shoveling the blame for their mistakes onto others, but it does seem like Pratt is telling the truth. Shooting the messenger, in this case, would be counter-intuitive.

“Christ, go eat something. You look like you’re going to fall over in the breeze,” Jacob’s lip curls with condescension. Pratt double-takes at him doubtfully, but ultimately he nods and scurries off to the mess hall. Jacob’s certain that he isn’t going to try any other deliberate bullshit, not after the colossal failure that was his plan to free the Deputy from his latest conditioning session.

Jacob rubs his beard with the back of his hand and checks over the paperwork again. He unclips the walkie-talkie from his belt and calls for a timestamp update over the line. A Chosen replies within a matter of seconds, rattling off the same few updates that are currently pinned to the clipboard. Huh.

“Just checking,” Jacob dismisses, ending the conversation. Maybe he did have an uncanny dream after all. It’s just so rare for Jacob to dream of anything other than Iraq or that goddamn farm for some reason. He’s not cracking under pressure, because that is simply something he doesn’t do, so he doesn’t feel the need to report the oddity to Joseph.

He’ll carry on as planned.

  
  


Which is how he finds himself nestled at the top of the mountain’s ledge, rifle nestled in the crook of his arm. His breath hitches once it dawns on him how _wrong_ the whole thing feels. He’s _done_ this already, he’s sure of it. His mind is the clearest, the keenest—no one else in his family can compare to his own stability. So why does it feel like he’s losing his fucking marbles here, watching the Deputy roar again. Watching him shred through his men like tissue paper.

The Deputy murdered Eli, just like he was supposed to; shot him right between his shrewd fucking peepers. But he did that already. He did that yesterday. Or last night. Christ.

Jacob grits his teeth, mentally shakes himself, and peers through his scope with renewed determination. The Deputy unloads entire clips into the skulls of his Judges, and it’s such vivid déjà vu that it makes Jacob’s skin tingle.

Jacob fires off a round; lo and behold, the Deputy ducks behind a boulder—the _same_ fucking boulder.

“Yeah, right,” Jacob mutters to himself, adjusting his grip. It’s a fluke. Crazy coincidence. It doesn’t matter, so long as the Deputy doesn’t make it up the hill. Well, it doesn’t matter even if he _does_ make it up the hill. Both outcomes are suitable to Jacob because they’re suitable to Joseph’s plans.

Jacob is about to fire again when (no, that’s not right) the Deputy throws down his rifle and peers up the rocky ledge, crazed and defiant (and sad again).

“You--” Jacob utters, blinking hard as if to refresh his vision. A Judge flings itself bodily into the Deputy, and they both go tumbling into the dirt. Its teeth sink into Dep’s jugular.

  
  


Jacob blinks at the clock that reads 6:15.

It’s like he can still smell the pine sap of the cliff. He can still feel how tightly his fingers were curled around his rifle, his gem. If he listens closely enough, he can hear the remnant howling of the wind and the wolves. Yet here he is, tangled in scratchy sheets, surrounded by blank walls free of decorations. Inhaling deeply, Jacob can smell the tang of neglect that permeates the Veteran’s Center. No perfume, no incense, only old clothes and metallic water and grass that never gets cut.

Jacob grabs his phone from the bedside table and finds that the date in the screen’s corner is the same as it was yesterday. He has a text from John.

‘You should chase the Deputy back to the Valley.’

It dawns on Jacob that when he replied to this text before, he never got an answer. Was that a dream? He immediately decides to call John, despite the fact that his brother never rises with the roosters like he does.

“What!” John snaps after five tedious rings.

“What day is it?” Jacob asks plainly.

“What do you fucking mean ‘ _what day is it_?!’ I’m not that twink of a fucking secretary you have now, go ask him!” Is he talking about Pratt? Jacob snorts against his wishes. He blinks—John’s still raving. “--Don’t you have somebody to waterboard? It’s _six_ , Jacob! Did Joseph put you up to this?”

Jacob can picture his brother now; hair mussed, bags under his eyes that haven’t been covered with cosmetics yet, a twitching snarl that means he’s mostly just bluster and that he’d never be _truly_ angry with Jacob about anything. He’d pick up the phone for him even if it was 3AM.

“John, I was confused, that’s all. Sorry I woke you up.” Jacob rises out of bed, stretches, and pads into the adjacent bathroom. There’s a beat on John’s end, but Jacob knows he hasn’t hung up.

“Confused?” John asks, all of the faux melodrama melting away in favor of hesitant concern. Even as a toddler—despite the decade between them—John had a fiery need to _help_ Jacob _._ It’s still endearing.

“Nothing like that,” Jacob dismisses, pointedly ignoring his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Wasn’t a nightmare,” he says, knowing John’s first thoughts will have leaped to Iraq.

“Don’t you take medication?” John asks shrewdly. Jacob opens the cabinet and pulls out a can of shaving cream.

“Nah,” he replies, cradling his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, “don’t need it.”

“What if you do need it?” John asks. Jacob’s brow twitches.

“What are you, my fuckin’ shrink?”

“You’ve never had a shrink,” John accuses with petulant agitation.

“And I never will,” says Jacob cheerily. “Now let me begin my day, and you can begin yours in,” Jacob checks a fake watch, “four hours.”

“Fuck off,” John replies with an audible smirk before hanging up.

As usual, Jacob shaves with a straight edge.

  
  


“Brother Jacob, I’ve come with the morning report.”

Pratt greets him outside of his bedroom with the same old edge of manic exhaustion.

“Let’s hear it,” Jacob smirks.

“The Deputy and two others were spotted last night interfering with a convoy; they managed to free some of our latest recruits and obtain a cache of weapons.”

Jacob’s eyes immediately narrow and he snatches the clipboard from Pratt’s grip without further ado. He quickly scans the documents and notes that they’re the same exact fucking reports from _yesterday_.

“Is this a joke?” Jacob frowns, towering over Pratt, who gives a satisfying whimper.

“What do you mean?”

It’s more of a rhetorical question. This isn’t a happy-go-lucky office for accountants; nobody here would pull a practical joke on him. The closest thing Jacob gets to fun rapport is what he has with John, and he’s miles away, tucked in bed.

So Jacob has to then assume that what’s happening is some sort of _problem_. Bliss? Something affecting his mental capacity in a detrimental way? But Jacob doesn’t touch Bliss with a ten foot pole, doesn’t want that shit anywhere near him. Something else used by the Militia perhaps? A counter-attack with a new drug, maybe. He knows that some nobody veterinarian over in the Henbane was cooking up some anti-Bliss measures, so it’s possible that he’s been exposed to a foreign agent.

Except...it’s an extremely slim possibility. Infiltrating the Vet Center is a fool’s errand, and not even the lauded Deputy has been able to accomplish such a task. Jacob can’t think of any recent location or time period in which he would have been exposed to something that would make him...off-balance.

Pratt is clearly waiting for a response, so Jacob merely scoffs and shoves the clipboard back into his bony hands.

“Nevermind. Just go prepare my Chosen for the Deputy’s capture.”

“Sir,” Pratt nods before scurrying off.

  
  


It occurs in the same way it already has for Jacob; the Deputy wakes up in a cage, reaches for the music box, and Jacob stomps on his hand, eliciting a snarl. The Deputy is released, the Deputy kills Eli (just as planned), and the Deputy goes on a rampage through the mountainside.

Only him.

Jacob, being a creature of keen observation and habit, can recite the Deputy’s movements now. He knows that he’ll sling the business-end of a crowbar into the throat of a Chosen. He knows which Judges he’ll shoot five times. He knows the path that Dep is carving towards Jacob’s position on the clifftop, so he isn’t surprised when once again, the Deputy throws down his rifle and raises his hands.

This time, Jacob adjusts his aim and shoots his own Judge in the eye before it can reach the Deputy and tackle him to the ground. He's curious. He focuses his scope on the Deputy again, and now he sees an expression that he wasn’t able to before—an expression that would have originally existed, perhaps, had the wolf never bitten out his throat.

It’s a twisted expression. It somehow manages to be apologetic and angry at the same time. Tears form, cascading beyond the red-rimmed edges of Rook’s eyes. It’s poor form, a weak affair. Jacob should climb down from his nest and sock his soldier in the jaw for acting like this is an answer for anything—for acting like his purpose isn’t to either kill Jacob or be killed by Jacob. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing complicated. Just the way it is, and no amount of crying is going to change it.

It takes a second for Jacob to notice that Rook has reached for his pocket radio and is now turning its dial. He continues to stare up the mountain, surely aware that Jacob can hear his frequency.

“I don’t want to kill you.”

Jacob hears the voice from his belt, grainy yet unmistakable.

“What,” Jacob mutters to himself, half irritated and half confused. He’s about to grab his radio and respond to the Deputy when a different gunshot rings out below. Squinting through his scope, Jacob refocuses just in time to see the Deputy’s body curled still and heavy in the grass. A Chosen lingers behind him with a pistol, paired with a Judge.

  
  


Jacob has no idea what to make of any of it before he finds himself panting heavily beneath scratchy bed sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hi to Jake's first chapter!! Sorry if it was a little short, I'd just rather update with something now rather than wait a little longer!! As always, thank you for the kudos!! and comments make my day so be sure to leave one if you're enjoying this convoluted rollercoaster :'3c  
> i appreciate y'all reading my work ;A;


	8. Chapter 8

Jacob is an incredibly patient man, and his architecture is sheer discipline. It’s what his childhood instilled in him, it’s what his time in juvenile detention reinforced, and it’s what the military ensured would never truly diminish. Jacob has been forged—he’s the product of countless hardships, and now, as a warrior, he has no room for complaint. He follows and gives orders seamlessly.

He is unlike John. His baby brother leaps into action before thoroughly looking at all of the consequences. Jacob contemplates, observes, collects data. Surefire methodology requires repetition. Severity. Dignity. This is the way that Jacob is built, and so this is the way he must tackle the Deputy and all of his associated road bumps.

At this point, Jacob has watched the Deputy die several times now; the most common denominator involved in these deaths is the operation to take Eli’s bunker. During their final showdown in the sheer chill of the mountainside, the Deputy tends to be shot by a Chosen, shot by Jacob, or taken down by a Judge.

Ten. Ten mornings thus far, Jacob has woken up at 6:15 with the distinct sense that he has not, in fact, carried out Joseph’s orders. He’s consistently proven correct when Pratt gives him the daily report. It would be maddening if Jacob were less stable—less stubborn—because he knows he is not dreaming. The physicality of it all is unmatched. He bears distinct, tactile memories from every attempt at taking Eli’s bunker. He still feels the pump of adrenaline as his eyes snap open. He remembers the feeling of his boots shifting in the loamy soil. He remembers the electric snap of radio towers going silent due to the Deputy’s final trial of fire.

Only him.

Not a dream, not multiple dreams. That isn’t the explanation. Jacob still considers drugs as a possibility; if he were in some medically-induced coma, or if he were to be administered a chemical agent developed by the Resistance, a realistic hallucination wouldn’t be out of the question. It’s not like the Bliss isn’t capable of producing vivid, alternate realities, but all of their research has indicated some level of awareness within test subjects (at least until they become Angels). Hazy edges, imagery that makes no sense, nausea, dizziness.

Jacob hasn’t even noticed a hair out of place on Pratt’s head. He feels asymptomatic and aware. He doesn’t think that the Resistance has any _scientists_ capable of producing something so flawless with their available resources. No, the Resistance has...Boshaw. A bear. The fucking Deputy. None of which seem to be engaging in abject chemical warfare.

All of the information and hypothesizing lead to one conclusion: Jacob must observe. He needs to know more before he can continue to beat against the unyielding metal. Only an idiot goes through the same routines expecting different results, and Jacob is not an idiot.

  
  


Currently, Jacob observes the Deputy through a pair of binoculars. He’s put the Militia Bunker mission on hold for now, and he doesn’t trust any of his followers to collect the information that he personally needs. They’re trained to hunt and kill, but they haven’t been trained to stalk and sit still.

Settled comfortably in the brush, Jacob watches as the Deputy and Boshaw, who never seems to stray a mile away from his enabling ringleader, laugh with one another. They sit atop an empty storage container in the middle of an abandoned construction yard. Random debris and equipment are scattered about in the dirt, just barely contained by a rusting and spotty chain-link fence.

Jacob rubs at his jaw, unbothered by the chill brought on by the mountains. Boshaw is a reckless imbecile, it’s not exactly the county secret. He’d make for a terrible Chosen; he’s too spontaneous, too bull-headed. Would never compute orders, much less carry them out. Yet the Deputy, the fiercest opponent in Hope, keeps him at his hip with fucking super glue. The beacon of optimism and sin alike is trusted by his followers even though his loyal council is comprised of ingrates.

Boshaw—who is currently carrying on with animated hand gestures and a mouthful of donut—may just accidentally blow the Deputy’s legs off one day. Surely the Deputy is aware of this. But he keeps him around anyway. Like a dog, perhaps. And a dog isn’t like a wolf, and it certainly isn’t like a Judge. It has a sense of dumb, blind loyalty, but that never stops one from biting the hand that feeds. Jacob sucks his teeth.

Maybe the Deputy surrounds himself with people like that so he can use them as meat. After all, he’s no hero, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise. A follower, a friend, or a Chosen—they’re all the same. They exist to fuel the strong, and they exist to stand between you and your opponent, so that you may continue to lead. The Deputy can dress them all up however he wants. Fodder is fodder.

Jacob doesn’t realize that there’s tension in his teeth until he loosens his jaw. He huffs to himself. The Deputy situation must be gnawing at him more than he thought.

He chides himself for not paying more attention when the view from his binoculars starts to get busy. A faint commotion can be heard from down the hill, across the road where the construction yard lies. The nondescript shouting is quickly followed by gunfire, and Jacob watches as some patrolmen encroach on the Deputy. Must have unfolded randomly; Jacob didn’t order any specific patrols through this area. He wanted a few hours to himself, but that may have to change now.

There are only a few more moments in which Jacob can make a decision. He can interfere and try to capture the Deputy himself, but he hadn’t planned on doing much today beyond observing suspicious behavior. He could keep the Deputy captive back at the Vet Center without following through with the Eli plan, but the more Jacob pushes at the Deputy’s buttons, the more he risks triggering instability in his pretend-hero. It’d just be another stint in a cage for the Deputy and not much else. However, if he lets the Deputy wander around the Whitetails for too long, he risks having some anomalies pop up with the bunker infiltration. Jacob adjusts his posture in the thick bushes and doubles down on the waiting and watching approach.

The Deputy and Boshaw were caught off guard in the middle of lunch, and while they’re holding their own, the amount of patrolmen seems to be more than they bargained for. Jacob’s binoculars are pinned to where the Deputy is tucked behind a hefty stack of pipes. Boshaw, after reloading his shotgun, jolts out of cover in an attempt to move to a different position. Jacob hears the Deputy yell something, but can’t make out the words. There’s more gunfire, then the Deputy is throwing himself in front of Boshaw, grabbing his follower by his jacket and curling over his form protectively.

Boshaw, now dwarfed by the Deputy’s large frame, is hidden from Jacob’s view, but not for long. One of Jacob’s followers must be a good shot, and Boshaw was stupid enough to brave the open air. Three shots pepper the Deputy’s back. Jacob, hyper-aware of his target, hears the shout of pain even over the white noise of battle.

The commotion falls just as quickly as the Deputy—shock and tentative victory perhaps blooming within Jacob’s followers. Jacob frowns deeply, dragging the binoculars away from his face. He didn’t tell his people to kill the Deputy on sight. There’s a good chance they didn’t recognize the sinner from afar, but the point is moot now. Even from his location, even though Boshaw and the others are small figures down below, Jacob can make out the Deputy’s white t-shirt as it devolves into red.

The Deputy collapses hard, slumping forward into Boshaw as his companion struggles to ease him down gently. He’s a heavy bastard. Jacob knows from experience. There’s some faint exclamation, Boshaw’s baritone cracking pitifully as he takes his turn being the curled protector. Some crude attempt at keeping Jacob’s people from gawking at them or harming them any further.

Christ, this is going to be a setback. The Deputy is the Gate’s best bet at snuffing out the Militia. He’s Jacob’s best bet at meeting either success or death, and Jacob has craved both equally. If he’s wounded or paralyzed, this is going to change things around Hope. If he’s dying, Jacob’s going to...well, he’s going to have to give Joseph a call either way.

There’s another hoarse bout of keening from Boshaw’s annoying mouth before--

  
  


Jacob opens his eyes, the red and muted glow of his alarm clock taking him away from that sad construction yard completely. He swallows, noting how dry his mouth is, then scowls at the wall. He allows himself just one minute’s worth of contemplation before he checks his phone.

‘You should chase the Deputy back to the Valley.’ It’s that same text from John, the one he’s seen for ten mornings straight. He’s starting to wonder if there’s proper reasoning behind the message, but he’s never able to get a solid answer from his brother. Either the topic of conversation diverts, or John acts like he doesn’t get Jacob’s reply all damn day.

Again with this? Jacob knows what he’s going to hear from Pratt before he even opens his bedroom door. It’s going to be the same fucking convoy interference paired with the loss of the Baron Lumber Mill. His gut tells him as much. Something is going on here. The more he thinks himself in circles, the more it feels like the air is off. The more it feels like he isn’t quite standing on even ground—like everything is tilted to the tiniest degree and nobody else notices or cares.

“Pratt,” Jacob snarls, letting his bedroom door bang wide open, damn near startling the clipboard out of Pratt’s hands.

“Sir!”

“Let me guess. Deputy got a convoy along with the lumber mill.”

“I—yes. Yes, Brother Jacob, I’m sorry to report it, it appears that--”

“I don’t need anything else. Carry on, go find something to do,” Jacob sneers, not bothering to look at the skittish look that’s surely on Peaches’ bruised face. He marches straight down the hall, his boots making clipped noises against the dirty tiles.

Whatever Jacob is going through doesn’t seem to be linked to the bunker takeover specifically. Whenever Rook bites the dust, Jacob finds himself in bed. But he isn’t sure how many times this can happen before Rook is taken out of the picture permanently. Jacob’s fingers flex in and out of tight fists and he gnaws on the inside of his cheek.

Fucking idiot took the shots meant for Boshaw—the kind of weak maneuver that Jacob has tried to drill out of his thick skull. The Deputy is many things; a liar, a pretender, a fool. But he isn’t _weak_. Even before Jacob put him through training, he wasn’t a feeble coward. He’s not meant to be a sacrifice for anyone other than Joseph. He’s not meant to throw himself onto the pikes as a martyr for every sheep that can’t stand up for itself. He should be making his followers do all of the shit that he clearly doesn’t need to. It’s a joke.

  
  


Today, Jacob does not bother the Deputy, nor does he attempt to follow through with the usual plan. He takes a step back and altogether ignores any information regarding the Resistance. He pours most of his energy into observing training drills and making decisions about territory expansions. The best available option now is to see what happens when Jacob doesn’t see or hear from the Deputy at all—will he still wake up in the usual manner?

  
  


The answer to that question, apparently, is yes. Jacob glares at his alarm clock. And it isn’t one of his finest moments, but when Pratt offers him that same goddamn morning report, he snatches the clipboard, tosses it down the corridor, and says ‘fetch.’

  
  


“You have a minute?” Jacob asks, loosely cradling his phone against his ear. He stands on one of the makeshift balconies of the Vet Center, looking out over the back of the property. No one is training there—it’s just a fenced-in storage area, beyond which lies the serenity of pine trees and fertile soil.

“For you? Always,” John replies easily. The device makes his voice sound like it’s a slightly higher pitch. It’s a little endearing.

“Joe hasn’t _pushed_ you too much lately, has he?”

Jacob comes right out the gate with a difficult question, and he knows John stalls over the line. The implication makes his baby brother uncomfortable for obvious reasons. Joseph is too fucking hard on him sometimes.

“ _Pushed_ me?” John asks, attempting to sound incredulous. It only gives Jacob the image of him tugging nervously at his shirt collar. “Can you elaborate?”

“He hasn’t asked you to do anything too extreme? Hasn’t talked about some experimental projects? Anything we didn’t discuss at the last meeting?”

“I...nothing out of the ordinary, Jacob. Everything is...fine.” John’s voice tilts up at the end, like he’s unsure. Like he’s lying, almost. But Jacob doesn’t get the impression that he’s aware of it. Nor does he get the impression that his brother is actually fibbing.

“Why are you asking?” John continues after a moment in which Jacob silently rubs at his beard, thinking.

“Something might be going on with the Deputy. I can’t confirm it, I don’t have a lot to go on.”

“The Deputy?” John replies, a new hint of excitement in his tone. Jacob resists the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he rotates a shoulder and ignores the phantom ache there. “Is he planning something?”

Planning? That’s an interesting way of looking at it. Jacob hadn’t considered that the Deputy may also be experiencing symptoms of this new routine. Any level of awareness on his part could lead to any number of outcomes here.

“Not that I know of. Like I said, it’s up in the air. Just wanted to see if you could think of anything.”

“Nope,” John says, popping the ‘p.’

“Hm,” grunts Jacob. “Well, I’ll keep you posted. If things stay strange, maybe I’ll take you up on that offer and send him back to your turf. Let you have your fun for a bit.” Jacob doesn’t necessarily _approve_ of John’s version of fun as it pertains to their enemy, but he’s certain that at the end of the day, John values the Project more than he values flirting with disaster. It’s just an unconventional outlet for a broken brother that’s lost all of his vices.

There’s a pregnant pause. If John’s name wasn’t still on the screen, Jacob would assume he’d abandoned his phone.

“John?” He ventures, shifting his weight from one heavy foot to the other.

“I—yeah. Sorry. My fucking skull is pounding. Christ. I’ll—need to get back you.” Jacob’s brows knit together with concern.

“All of a sudden? You aren’t on medication, right?” He hears John scoff dismissively, can almost picture him waving a hand.

“I’m fine, it’s fine. Fucking caffeine probably. Shit Montana weather. Both.”

“Maybe sleep for another twelve hours.”

“Move over Saturday Night Live, here comes Jacob fucking Seed.” John grouses before Jacob is hit with the telltale ‘call ended’ beep. He offers a tiny grin, because despite John’s evident pain, he still sounded so accepting.

It’s a passing thought, but Jacob wonders if he and Joseph are the only ones that John could forgive for anything at all.

  
  


“You keep dying on me,” Jacob hums thoughtfully. The very tip of his hunting knife presses an indentation into the soft skin of the Deputy’s bare belly. The Deputy shoots him a half-assed glare, more tired than scared or irritated.

It had taken no more effort than usual to get his hunters to haul their usual prey in with Bliss arrows today. Jacob feels a quick zing of satisfaction at the idea of having pried him away from Boshaw, if they were together again this afternoon.

Currently, the Deputy is tied to a chair, his arms behind him in a tight vice and his ankles duct-taped to metal legs. Jacob has been interrogating him in a dingy, basement store room for the past forty minutes or so. Nothing prudent has come up when the Deputy chooses to answer simpler questions, and more complex questions are just met with sarcasm and bloody drool.

“What?” The Deputy squints, exaggerating an eye that is now purple-bruised.

“I’d compare you to Jesus, but I bet Joseph wouldn’t talk to me for a week if I did.”

“Fucking Christ, Jacob,” the Deputy groans, sounding impatient. Jacob tilts his head and lets his knife sink in a little deeper, just above the Deputy’s navel. Blood collects in that natural little divot until it spills over towards his jeans.

Jacob looms over his toy soldier, one boot propped heavily on the arm of the chair. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, making the blood-splashed tile twinkle. Jacob can feel the Deputy exhale heavily, his breath making Jacob’s dog tags sway.

“I can see why people may think my brothers are crazy. Me? I’ve always been the level-headed one in the bunch. Always knew what I was going to do before I did it. Never lacked perfect clarity.”

“Hope it comforts Miller to know that at least you were _aware_ when you gnawed on his femur,” the Deputy chuckles before he’s cut off by a sudden bout of coughing. Jacob feels his eyes twitch minutely.

“And I’m aware of where my knife is going,” Jacob says quietly, easing his blade into the Deputy’s stomach lining. The Deputy groans, deep and long. His head tilts back, his Adam’s apple shifts. Sweat rolls down the edge of his jaw. Jacob pointedly ignores it. 

"The point that I'm getting at," Jacob continues, "is that I'm not a delusional little drone. So if your Resistance friends are trying to get a rise out of me with this Groundhog Day bullshit, you're gonna be sorely disappointed."

“Why are you playing with your fucking food?” The Deputy grits out, bypassing Jacob's implications entirely. He cranes his head to meet Jacob’s eyes. “That’s not like you. This isn't _conditioning_.” An indignant tear makes an escape. Jacob acknowledges that it’s part of the human body’s natural way; it isn’t caused by any fear or sadness within the Deputy. Good boy.

“Had to collect some data. No hard feelings, Dep. But with the way our little interview has gone? It seems like you won’t remember this in the morning.”

And that is, at least, what Jacob concludes. There has been no indication that the Deputy knew about the plans with Eli, their showdown on the mountain, or his unlucky lunch break with Boshaw. He's presumably written off Jacob's questions as part of a weird mind game.

A twinge of anxiety occurs in the back of Jacob’s mind—if Dep _actually_ dies here, they’ll have a trickier time taking out the Militia. He also knows that Joseph would rather _convert_ this particular sheep than gut him for a botched interrogation, but in the end, his brother will just have to take an underwhelming victory for what it is and thank Jacob for the goddamn labor.

The Deputy is too out of it to ask Jacob any questions. His head lolls heavily against the back of his chair. There’s an arrhythmic pattern of blood droplets hitting the floor. Jacob’s eyes don’t leave the Deputy’s.

“Joseph isn’t trying hard enough,” the Deputy murmurs, his lips tacky with blood. Now it’s Jacob’s turn to squint as he leans in to better catch those dying rattles.

“What?” Jacob feels his brow crease.

“...To save you.”

Jacob reels back like he’s been slapped, just as the Deputy’s eyes lose focus. Jacob yanks hard on the handle of his knife. 

  
  


His hand still feels sopping wet when he blinks into a different suit of awareness. It’s 6:15 in the morning, Pratt is going to tell him about that goddamn lumber mill, and Jacob, for some indiscernible reason, feels bitter.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Sorry for the delay! I've been pretty torn between work and the general stress of, well, *gestures at everything*  
> Hope this chapter wasn't too short, I just really wanted to get some content out to you, because you have been very kind and supportive. I've loved all of your comments, and I sincerely appreciate them.
> 
> I hope I don't take too long to get the next chapter out, but tbh the Supernatural finale sucked so fucking badly, I may genuinely have to crack my knuckles and get to work on some fix-it on the side. It's been kind of a devastating slap in the face since that's a story with characters that I've had a strong relationship with since I was a teenager. 
> 
> I digress! Thanks for checking out this update and thanks for the kudos/comments! Hope you guys stay safe and stay home for the holidays <3


	9. Chapter 9

“Okay, okay! Fuck, marry, kill.”

“Sharky,” says the Deputy, his nose wrinkling with disapproval. Jacob observes the two as they partake in their usual lunch atop the shipping container in the construction yard. Jacob has found that if he leaves well enough alone, Dep’s day will generally pan out in a familiar pattern, and he typically patrols with Boshaw in this neck of the woods. This is the third time Jacob has bugged the area in hopes of gathering some information. Dep is stubborn, and if he _does_ have secret Resistance plans locked away in that thick skull, no amount of torture or interrogation would cause them to spill out.

Catching the enemy slipping during casual conversation would waste less of Jacob’s time and energy. Unfortunately for Jacob, this approach means sitting through a lot of Boshaw’s inane dialogue.

“Oh, come on, Jupe! You never humor me. Joseph, Jacob, and John. You have to answer,” Boshaw leers, elbowing the Deputy in his ribs. Dep frowns deeply at his bag of Doritos. Jacob frowns, too.

“Faith not good enough for this dumbass game?” Dep asks warily, raising an eyebrow. Boshaw guffaws.

“Faith is hot and all, don’t get me wrong. But it doesn’t feel fair pooling her with the _Seeds_ , man. That chick just needs some therapy.”

“And the rest of them don’t?”

Jacob’s eye twitches.

“ _Jupiter_ ,” Boshaw throws his head back with an exasperated sigh that just begs the Deputy to play along with his crass game. There’s some white noise in Jacob’s earpiece for a moment as the two kick their boots idly against the metal container and dig around in their bags of snacks. Jacob’s hope of Dep dropping the conversation is snuffed out.

“I don’t want to kill any of them,” says the Deputy. Through his binoculars, Jacob can see Dep staring up at the midday nimbus clouds.

“That is such a _you_ answer,” Boshaw groans, his baritone grating on Jacob’s eardrum. The idiot doesn’t sound irritated. Passively, Jacob wonders if these two have ever argued over anything serious.

“I don’t, though,” Dep replies, defensive. “That’s not the goal here, Shark. I’ve told you that. If we can get through this without butchering the Seeds, then that’s the way I want it done.”

“It’s all good, man. It’s super hypothetical. If you’re not gonna kill any of them, at least tell me who you’d do the horizontal tango with. I’m tryin’ to collect some data here, but I know Jess’d just say she’d kill 'em all.”

“If she didn’t kill _you_ for asking first,” Dep deadpans.

“Exactly! What a buzzkill,” Boshaw says, gesturing with the hand that’s holding his sandwich. A chunk of tomato falls six feet to the ground and he sighs. “Hurk said he’d fuck Joseph because he ‘seems gentle.’ And I was like, man, that’s the shit you have to watch out for, y’know? Like he could pull all sorts of wacky shit once you let your guard down. At least you have a pretty good _idea_ of what you’re getting with John and Jake. Their crazy is just, _boom_ , right there.”

The Deputy’s following sigh is long enough to make Jacob’s earpiece fuzz out a bit.

“Well since you’ve clearly thought this through, who would you fuck?” The Deputy asks, and for some reason, his sudden blasé allowance makes something in Jacob’s gut twist unpleasantly. Dep’s question seemed rhetorical with a twinge of attitude, but Jacob’s too peeved to let that sink in.

“John,” Boshaw replies with ease in a ‘duh’ tone. He sucks tomato juice off his thumb. “He has experience, right?”

Jacob’s ears ring and his vision is hazy red at the edges. His nose flares as he settles firmly in the soil, abandoning his binoculars in favor of cocking his rifle. He presses the stock into the dip of his arm until it fucking hurts, and he lines Boshaw’s big fucking mouth up in his sights. The shot would crack across the road and it would shatter all of Boshaw’s front teeth on impact. A BLT would be his last fucking meal. For today, at least. Jacob will have to kill the Deputy, too. There’d be no way to avoid it.

Jacob’s finger flits over the trigger, his heart racing, his breath deep and his skin hot enough to boil water. The only thing that keeps him from taking the shot is the Deputy’s wet, shaky inhale. Jacob’s brow creases and he shifts his rifle, his scope now centered on Dep’s sad expression. Jacob’s hands are clammy.

“Do you think...Eden’s Gate doesn’t make you ‘pray the gay away,’ does it?” The Deputy asks, setting down his bag of chips and turning his head to face Boshaw directly. Jacob doesn’t shift again to see Boshaw’s expression. “You’ve known them longer than I have, I was just wondering if you heard anything weird at a barbecue or something.”

“Damn, Dep, I didn’t think about that,” Boshaw says after a pregnant pause. Jacob’s bug barely picks up on the sound of Boshaw drumming his fingers on the hollow container beneath them. Thinking. “Would be fucked up if that were true, right?”

“Most Fundamentalist cults really crack down on that shit,” Dep replies, his lower getting caught between his teeth. He chews. Jacob watches it all. He still feels nauseated.

“Yeah, but Joe’s marched to his own drumbeat. Made up a whole bunch of other shit from day one. I don’t know that that’s his...C’mon, Dep, we all joke around here. But we don’t know that John is even...” Boshaw trails off, losing his confident reassurance. Jacob, with uneven fingers, adjusts his scope. It’s one thing to have a rough idea of what the county knows about his baby brother, it’s another thing to hear this uncomfortable note of _concern_ from Rook.

His scope zooms out of focus for a second before he sees Boshaw settle a heavy hand on Rook’s shoulder.

“I read Joseph’s book,” the Deputy says after another big inhale. “I think he’s...” Dep pauses, like he’s delicately treading on what he wants to convey, “curated his ideas so that they don’t mesh with a lot of the shit his parents used to say.” Boshaw processes that then snorts.

“Well, then we’ll just have to invite the Seeds to Hope County Pride next year if we aren’t all dead by then!” Boshaw exclaims, spreading his arms wide so that he may try and encompass the irony. He’s clearly trying not to snicker at the idea of inviting the Seed family to anything at all. Rook buries his face in his hands.

“This hillbilly shithole doesn’t have a Pride fair!” Jacob barely deciphers, the hidden mic not catching Rook’s muffled indignation.

“It could, if we weren’t all droppin’ like flies!” Boshaw laughs, and it encourages a raspy chuckle out of Rook, too. In a moment of solemn decency—the likes of which Jacob has never seen Boshaw consider—Boshaw shakes his hand through the Deputy’s hair, mussing it beyond help.

“If I could donate a Boshaw nugget of wisdom real quick, though, Jupe. We’re not frollickin’ through the Bliss up here, and John ain’t here to bark, okay? Jacob’s _all_ bite. And that adorable heart of gold of yours is gonna get you killed. Jacob’s gonna _eat it_. ‘Cause that’s what he does. That dude’s never cried at Old Yeller and he certainly hasn’t cried watching Bambi. The Devil doesn’t need your sympathy, man. Why, that’s why Hurk said he’d kill Jacob, y’know? For the fuck, marry, kill thing? Some folks are too far gone for you to be worryin’ about whether or not they let queer dudes on the compound.”

Jacob’s chest is tight. He exhales and moves his cross-hairs back to the Deputy’s ashen face. He doesn’t know how or when he let the scope stray. Rook’s mouth curves up into a half-smile.

“My answer’s still the same, Shark. I wouldn’t kill any of them.”

Boshaw snorts.

“At least tell me you wouldn’t marry Jacob,” he replies with good nature. Rook’s smile doesn’t leave his clueless fucking face.

Jacob, to save himself the humiliation of packing up and walking back to the Vet Center, pulls the trigger.

  
  


The next day, Jacob messages John so frequently that his brother actually tells him—as kindly as he’s able—to fuck off for a bit and let him work in peace. Jacob doesn’t even realize that he was hovering.

Some base, instinctive _thing_ gripped his stomach in a tight fist and urged him to look after John. That mother bear response has been etched into his brain ever since he first saw that helpless infant in a bundle. A shock of dark hair and the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen begged Jacob to throw himself between John and the wide, hungry world.

He was John’s shield for as long as he could be, and to this day, he debates whether or not setting the farmhouse on fire was the best course of action. It was necessary in the moment, as Jacob’s temperamental dynamite had reached the end of its wire, but what followed were years of absence in which he could no longer keep that sensitive, crybaby of a boy away from all the teeth.

There was no one to keep John’s foster parents from calling him a vile, gluttonous homosexual, and Jacob holds that against himself even if John doesn’t at all.

But it’s not that any of them discuss it at length; John is bombastic no matter how much Joseph tries to rein him in, and his posture doesn’t shrink whenever he mentions his college years in passing. The specifics of John’s promiscuity have never been Joseph’s concern, and they’ve certainly never been Jacob’s.

Jacob spends the day contemplating; he doesn’t know how Rook dies.

  
  


It’s as if a hot needle has been poking at the back of Jacob’s neck ever since he listened to Rook and Boshaw’s conversation. For some reason it nags at him; drives that pin inward until it scrapes his vertebrae. It’s a dormant awareness, one that he doesn’t want to look in the eye. One that he can’t admit bothers him, because what is there to be bothered by?

“We had some bullshit ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when I served,” Jacob grits out, his teeth clicking together minutely. He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles. He’s sitting in front of the Deputy’s cage; the sun is setting and Rook is glaring resolutely from behind the bars that have become familiar to both of them.

“What?” Rook responds hoarsely. He hasn’t been given any water since the Chosen captured him earlier this morning. Jacob is starting to improvise. He knows how many days it’s been since all of this started, but the mental calendar isn’t keeping all of the events from bleeding together.

“I never saw the point. There are over four-hundred species that exhibit same-sex, interpersonal dynamics while surviving—thriving, even. It doesn’t matter how you’re strong, so long as you’re strong. There were many kingdoms and civilizations that honored same-sex pairs. Before, you know.” Jacob waves a vague hand. “Westerners are rigid, and cowardly, and they’ll put whatever words they want in God’s mouth so long as it suits their agenda. It’s quite a weak thing—to cling to concepts that don’t function.”

Rook seems to chew on this; he kneels forward in the blood-stained dirt and holds a bar with one fight-scraped fist. He tilts his head just barely, taking Jacob in. Even though he’s the one caged—the one on his knees—he still gives Jacob the impression of a predator. The Deputy is a fool, among other things, but he is resilient. Analytical. Different from Jacob, though not entirely.

The yard floodlights cut on, programmed on a timer, and the brightness shines in Rook’s eyes, bounces off the white. It gives the dust in his dark hair a blueish tint.

An odd look passes over the Deputy’s face—like he’s debating whether or not to say something before he decides that it’s not like Jacob can punish him further. He’d be wrong in that regard. He speaks anyway.

“Funny you should criticize _anybody_ for putting words in God’s mouth.”

Jacob concedes the point and he ducks his head forward, chuckling. He crosses his arms over his chest, comfortable for now.

“Joseph interprets whatever it is he hears. He doesn’t manipulate a Bible. Suppose that’s why he started from scratch. Too much bullshit to sift through as is.”

“You like structure, Jacob,” Rook says. He pauses in an attempt to swallow and ease his dry throat. He speaks casually, as if Jacob is his neighbor and he’s having him over to catch the baseball game on TV. “But you like logic. You like what you can touch and see.” Rook shakes his head, just barely, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “I can’t picture you attending a sermon.”

“That’s because I don’t,” Jacob says bluntly. “Between you and me, I don’t give a fuck what Joseph preaches to the sheep.”

“John buys into it well enough. So why are you here then?” Rook asks, tone balancing on genuinely curious. Jacob sighs through his nose then adjusts his legs; he leans forward and rests his arms on his knees. His mouth ticks upward at the Deputy.

“I’m a big picture kind of guy. That’s what I know. And I get the impression that you are, too, albeit a little misguided,” Jacob allows, “So I don’t care what turns the people on, I don’t care what fruit punch they drink. I’m just here to make sure my brothers live to see the other side of whatever fallout awaits this shithole country. That’s survival— _that’s_ smart.”

“I want that, too,” Rook says, eyes fierce. It doesn’t sound like a lie or a distraction to prolong their dialogue; it makes Jacob’s jaw click.

“Do you now,” Jacob smirks, rolling his shoulders and leaning in another inch. He’s about a foot away from the Deputy’s face. He feels his dog tags fall from behind the collar of his shirt and swing in the air. They don’t even weigh three ounces, but they also weigh a hundred pounds. Rook’s eyes flicker to them briefly, but he settles on meeting Jacob’s gaze.

“People should survive, people should be healthy. People should be able to be content. Hope County is far from content right now. So are your brothers.” Rook says these things and it’s almost jarring how much he sounds like Joseph—absolute conviction and blind, dumb faith.

“They don’t have to be _content_ today. They have to _survive_. The rest comes later,” Jacob replies. It’s what he’s been saying for months now. Work comes before play.

“They’re not _going_ to survive at this rate,” Rook insists, his tone becoming increasingly heated. “I don’t want to kill any of you, and as far as I can tell, I’m not going to. Because I _know_ there are other options, there just _are_. What about Joseph? How is all of this not running him ragged? How is this good for him? Or John?”

Jacob’s out of his chair before he even registers that he’s moving. His boots grind into the dirt and he sinks into the Deputy’s space, the air thick with a tension that presses down their shoulders. His forearm barely fits between the bars, but he manages to grab the Deputy’s sweaty Henley and keep him from backing away. Despite the sudden, sharp intake of breath, Rook doesn’t flinch. His eyes don’t widen with fear.

“Careful now,” Jacob mutters, eyes hooded and voice low.

Rook’s eyes search Jacob’s for—something. He apparently finds what he’s looking for, because he audibly swallows and his eyebrows kick up.

“Oh my God,” Rook breathes, “that’s why you were going on about ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’ You couldn’t care less if people think that Eden’s Gate is crazy. But the idea of me not understanding your family? Not getting the big picture? For some reason that _bothers_ you, doesn’t it?”

Jacob grunts and abruptly lets go of Rook’s shirt; the careless force of it knocks Rook back on his ass. Jacob gets to his feet and heads back to his chair, where the music box sits on the ground.

“Don’t get too full of yourself. Joseph is the one that thinks you’re something special, not me. You are meat. You will _always_ be meat,” Jacob recites, opening the music box and winding up the crank.

“Fuck, Jacob! We want the same thing! Can you honestly tell me that _Joseph_ sees the big picture?” Rook isn’t begging, per se, but he staggers to his feet and glares, his jaw tight. He sounds frustrated—like he just had a hare within reach of a snare trap only for it to turn away at the last second. Unfortunately for the Deputy, Jacob isn’t a hare.

“That’s enough for today,” Jacob murmurs, dragging his eyes back up to Rook. He lets go of the crank, and The Platters begin to croon. “Let’s wind you up and watch you go.”

“Jacob! This leash is a lot shorter than you fucking think it is!” Rook snarls, a guttural noise building in the back of his throat as he sways on his feet and loses the ability to form complete sentences. Loses full cognition. Jacob’s eyes narrow.

Rook tears his way through the Whitetails bunker with his usual ease. He takes out the radio towers and rips through Jacob’s forces—up, up, up the hill, through the valley.

Jacob’s mind has been running on white noise since the minute he turned the Deputy loose from his kennel. The lack of clarity makes him _itch_ ; brings back that white-hot needle at the back of his neck. There’s too much to consider, but the fact of the matter is that none of it should _be_ considered. Rook has a forked tongue. Joseph has said as much, and whether or not it’s a warning from God, Jacob has to keep the enemy in his place. Can’t afford to stray from the facts, from what he already knows to be true.

And yet, the white noise persists.

Jacob takes out both the Judge and the Chosen that typically interfere with Rook’s final moments. From his vantage point, he watches as Rook yet again pulls out his radio and speaks.

“I don’t want to kill you.”

His voice is different from the last time he said it. It’s barely noticeable, but Jacob is observant. Rook sounds all the more tired. Their earlier conversation weighing on him as a burden that didn’t exist in days past.

“You keep saying that,” Jacob replies into the radio once he’s unhooked it from his belt. “Why?”

A beep when he lets his thumb off the receiver. A pause. In the distance down below, Rook brings his radio back to his mouth.

“You’re not meat.”

Jacob inhales sharply through his nose, vision tinting at the edges yet again. He nestles down with the comforting press of his rifle, and ends the Deputy’s day. It’s not the answer he was looking for—it doesn’t explain anything—but Jacob’s had enough for now.

  
  


The following day passes Jacob by fairly quickly. He drifts through it in a haze. For all his carefully-articulated plans and research, he has no solution for the fog in his skull. He wants to be rid of it, but perhaps not as badly as he wants to ignore its root cause.

“Tell me about the Deputy,” Jacob orders. He paces along the Vet Center grounds, observing training drills. It’s a quarter past noon, but the air is crisp and cool. The weather never changes; it’s the same temperature every damn cycle. At least rain will never catch Jacob off guard. Pratt, stuttering a few steps behind him and to his left, makes a funny noise.

“He was last seen earlier this morning at the--”

“I don’t want an update, I want information. You worked with him before you worked for _me_ , isn’t that right, Peaches?” Jacob mutters, not looking over his shoulder. Several pairs of Chosen spar with one another a few yards away. Their form is decent. “What was your impression of him?”

Jacob can read Pratt like a book now; without looking at him, he can tell that Pratt is debating whether or not to say anything too specific. He’s trying to determine whether or not the information he divulges could be used to hurt his friend. Ultimately, he submits to Jacob. Because he doesn't actually have a choice in the matter.

“I didn’t know him well, sir. He was still new before we...” Before they showed up at Joseph’s compound with a warrant. “He was nice. He joined a few of us at the Eagle on the weekends. He’s good at darts. Terrible at cards; never wanted to play poker. Said he was a terrible liar.”

Jacob grunts. That’s accurate, as far as he understands.

“Is that all?” He asks. There’s another pause, and is almost stretches on for too long. Jacob’s just about to turn and reprimand Pratt when he finally speaks up again, albeit quiet and somewhat detached. Lost in recollection.

“There was one night—we, we got a call from dispatch about a domestic. I was available for backup, but I never ended up going to the address. Hudson was paired off with Rook; she told me about what happened. Told me that Rook flipped some kind of switch. He was never really aggressive, and he was still kind of wet behind the ears, so Hudson was surprised when he got as _angry_ as he did.”

“Angry?” Jacob asks, interest piqued. He hears Pratt idly scratching at his shirt sleeve. The chatter of people and wolves fades into the background as Jacob continues to listen.

“Kicked the front door off one hinge when the suspect didn’t answer. The report listed an unconscious female—the wife—on the scene. And a boy—the son—hiding beneath the kitchen table. Suspect was shitfaced. Rook’s height, apparently. And the way Hudson describes it, it was a powder keg; on sight, like how dogs get when only a bucket of water will break them up.”

“So Hope County’s little hero wrote whatever he wanted in the margins of the law,” Jacob rubs at his cheek. Today his scars ache, his skin is dry and irritated.

“Hudson grabbed the boy and removed him from the house before he could see too much. Told me it was only a minute, if that, but by the time she got back, the kitchen was a wreck. She knows how people get during calls like this—it’s not the first time she’s seen it happen. But she seemed shaken up, talking about how Rook looked. Way she tells it, he was holding that guy up by what was left of his t-shirt. Guy’s face was battered like a melon.” Pratt clears his throat, and his meekness makes a return. Like he’s just realized that he’s been talking to Jacob freely.

“Well. She told me that Rook was whispering something to the guy when she walked back in. But she didn’t hear what was said, and later when we both asked him for details, he shrugged it off. Said he was just on a tangent.”

“So the Deputy gets a whiff of power, lets it get to his head, bends the rules in the department and probably doesn’t even get a smack on the wrist.”

That’s what cops do, Jacob surmises, though the logic leaves an acrid taste in his mouth. Rook is a foolhardy, naive brute. But an egotist? Regardless of whether or not his purposes for leading the Resistance are selfish ones?

“Maybe, sir. But after all the paperwork was finished and the wife didn’t press charges, the suspect left the county. So the Sheriff didn't care.”

“He left for how long?”

“For good. He’s not...he’s not _dead_ or anything. He moved to North Dakota to live with a cousin. But he’s gone now. So. That’s...that’s all I know about Roo—the Deputy. Sir.”

Pratt certainly knows more, but Jacob isn’t going to get that information today, even with an extreme amount of prodding. He decides that this is suitable for now; it gives him something to turn over in his head.

“That works. Scram,” Jacob dismisses his follower with an impatient wave of his hand. Pratt takes his leave in a hurry, ears red.

Jacob’s legs slow in their pace before he stops completely. He stands, front and center in the courtyard, and crosses his arms. The Chosen continue to beat on one another, trading blows. Getting knocked to the ground before springing back up into defensive positions. They critique one another, give each other shit for missing kicks or moving too slowly. None of them go easy on each other, but since they’ve all proven themselves worthy of being in Jacob’s forces, there are no real acts of aggression. They save that energy for the enemy.

The sparring looks nothing like the fight that Jacob conjures in his mind’s eye. Strikes solid enough to pop knuckles and make one's ears ring—the dull thudding of flesh meeting flesh. Even before Jacob honed him into the perfect weapon, Rook was a thunderer. A drunken animal without any wits wouldn't have stood a chance. He’d get a few sloppy licks in, sure, but Rook would have rained holy hell down upon him.

Blood splattering in an arc across the kitchen cabinets, marring the refrigerator's handle. A dining table splintered in half, right down the middle. Some poor sap’s vase shattered across the tile that's already drenched in spilled booze.

A fierce, tight, “fuck you,” hissed from behind clenched, grinding teeth. Wild, bloodshot eyes. Jacob shifts his weight from foot to foot, willing away the brief pang of heat beneath his gut.

Growing up, Jacob always had to play the hero, the referee, the guardian. Even when he barely broke five-foot-five, he had to be the second biggest thing in the room to keep their father at bay. He never had the chance to fantasize about having that role lifted off his shoulders, even for just a moment. It was never going to happen—no one was ever going to save them—so why waste his time hoping for the unthinkable?

What kind of lightning in a bottle would it have been, though? What kind of miracle from God? To have a stranger with those Bliss eyes and that broad, hulking frame sweep into their decrepit, rotten home and beat their father until he was damn near unrecognizable. What then?

Jacob still can’t afford to imagine it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone!! I'm not sure if I'll be able to post another chapter in time for xmas, but we'll see! I hope you're all still safe. 
> 
> I read each and every one of your comments, even if I don't reply to them directly. Pls know that I always appreciate them! Let me know what you thought of this chapter <3 your kudos, etc. mean a ton to me! 
> 
> Gosh, I can't believe i'm over 35k words now?? I really didn't register how big of a beast this fic would become, and I don't think we're quite at the halfway point yet uwu;;


	10. Chapter 10

Another ten days pass as Jacob continues to track actions and consequences, mentally tallying Rook’s deaths. Most occur due to combat, but a few seem accidental—vehicular crashes and the like. Even with the inability to save notes with a laptop or journal, Jacob recognizes that he’s been trapped in this cycle for over a month now. At this point, he’s spoken with two different doctors at the Vet Center in an attempt to find a medical explanation for his problem. No dice, of course. They eye him with shrewd concern and throw around useless conjecture in regards to Bliss side-effects or hallucinations brought on by insomnia or PTSD. With no actual solutions and more than enough physical evidence to prove that Jacob isn’t going off the fucking rails, he has no choice but to resign himself to this reality.

He calls John every day, finding small comforts in their conversations. He never brings up his issues, only asks for vague input from time to time. He has no strong connections with Faith, and speaking with Joseph about this is out of the question, at least for now. So Jacob is determined to handle this on his own, as that is how he’s handled every conflict in his life thus far.

  
  


“You have to knock me out every time you wanna talk to me?” Rook asks groggily, reaching with one hand to rub at his forehead, only to find that he’s bound in handcuffs. The look he gives Jacob is withering. Jacob returns that pale glare with a smirk. “You could just tell me you’d like to meet somewhere,” Rook continues. Jacob’s raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, really? And you’d show up if I just asked nicely?”

“You won’t know unless you try,” says Rook, and Jacob can’t gauge how serious he is.

They’re currently seated on the ground in a clearing, both leaning back against tree trunks, albeit Rook’s wrists are bound and the pistol in Jacob’s lap is a blatant suggestion; don’t make a break for it. Jacob’s loosened the leash a bit today because the usual Bliss arrows and Vet Center cages result in a more hostile Rook, and that approach tends to devolve into the ‘Fuck Eli’ plan whether Jacob wants it to or not. This may be a more viable approach—he can attempt to weed some information out of Rook without bending over backwards and involving half the damn county population. All he had to do was grab a random follower and ambush Rook and Boshaw during their usual lunch break.

Jacob sees the exact second in which Rook processes how he ended up in the middle of nowhere with a Seed. Rook’s smarmy little grin leaves and his temper takes its place.

“What’d you do to Sharky?” He asks. Jacob purses his lips and tilts his head, focusing on the honey-crisp apple that he’s slicing with a pocket knife. The usual responses come to mind—default taunting with the cruel implication that his little friend is currently hanging by his toes above a Judge’s kennel. Just to get a rise out of him. That’s normally how he conducts business. He’s used to verbal chess and physical provocation. Raw interrogations and sessions involving The Platters.

But he hasn’t gotten anywhere with that methodology this past month. All it gets him is a spitting Deputy and a botched fight on a mountainside. Just for kicks—just to see how it goes—he tries to take a page out of John’s book. Because according to John, you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.

“Boshaw’s fine,” Jacob grunts, lifting a piece of apple to his mouth with his blade. “Dumped him close to the F.A.N.G. Center.”

There’s a moment of silence in which Jacob eats and Rook just stares at him, as if attempting to fix a Rubik’s cube. With the sun filtering down through the pines and the birds chattering in the background, one could almost mistake this as a tranquil scene between neighbors.

“Alright,” Rook concedes, “so why am I here?”

Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?

“What’s your ideal scenario, Deputy?” Jacob asks. He finally looks up from his apple and meets Rook’s gaze. “Let’s say you kill me and mine, you crush Eden’s Gate. To what end? To rebuild half the county with—what? Resources _graciously_ donated from a government that hasn’t cared about what’s gone on here since the county exits were barricaded? Since one of their marshals went radio silent?” Jacob shrugs a shoulder and eats another apple slice. “If every pitiful sheep here can go back to catching Jeopardy at seven-o-clock and rolling over for a debased facade of functionality, that’s victory for you?”

Rook chews on the question for a moment and Jacob lets him. Jacob is attentive when he finally hears an answer.

“First of all,” says Rook, “I don’t want to kill you or your family--”

“You keep saying that,” Jacob scoffs with distaste under his breath, but Rook keeps talking without acknowledging the interruption.

“--I want to rehabilitate Eden’s Gate into something that’s cohesive with the rest of the county.” Jacob almost scoffs at that, too. “I want everyone to agree to a ceasefire, and under my team’s guidance, we can prepare the doomsday bunkers with offered supplies while allowing people to return to their homes. We can designate rotating teams for county refurbishment and bunker development.”

“That’s a pipe dream if I ever heard one,” Jacob would laugh outright if Rook’s unwavering belief wasn’t so prickly.

“It can work—with my help, it can.” Rook speaks as firmly as Joseph always does, his feet planted in the idea that no one else can box in his weight class. Despite how successful his conditioning has been, Jacob still can’t convince this wannabe hero that you can’t beat someone at chess if you’re one of the pawns on the board.

“A _ceasefire_ ,” Jacob repeats incredulously, finally getting down to his apple core. He tosses it aside for whatever deer or raccoon that may come, and sucks his fingers clean. “Like asking lions and antelope to get along at this point.”

“But Hope County is a watering hole, I’ve heard proof from people that have lived here their whole lives. Christ, I _know_ Resistance members that used to play pool with Eden’s Gate members on the weekends. You guys were a _commune_ before you were a _cult_.”

“We were _always_ a cult,” Jacob says sharply, now fiddling with his knife for something to do with his hands. “Make no mistake, Dep, Joseph had today mapped out in his mind’s eye back when John bought up the land. He had the power even when he’d duck his head and act all humble. This place was never Woodstock, it was his vision right from the start.”

“No, I know,” Rook says emphatically, “but _physically_ Eden’s Gate was a commune. And it could be again! And I know that before coming here, Joseph wasn’t always--”

“What do you know about what Joseph was?” Jacob asks, his hackles raising before he can really stop himself or question why he’s the one getting riled up and not the Deputy. “I don’t even know what Joseph was. All I have is whatever he’s told me,” he bites out, and as soon as he does, he regrets it. He shuts his jaw so tightly and so quickly that his teeth click together.

There’s a silence that only the birds occupy for another moment. From where he sits a mere few feet away, Jacob can hear the Deputy inhale deeply through his nose before choosing his next words.

“If you, John, and Faith were different before you came here, then I have to believe that Joseph was, too.”

“How. How was Joseph different?” Jacob barks, rising to his feet and approaching Rook, his shadow draping over his opponent’s tired face.

“He was alone, all of you were,” Rook says fiercely, shifting onto his knees to get an extra inch or two of height, always so stubborn and defiant no matter what mountaintop Jacob looms from. “But he will be again if we don’t do something to stop the Project. I don’t think he realizes it, but he’s going to work you all to death! What if he’s so used to not _having_ anything that he doesn’t know how to hold onto people without breaking them?”

Jacob’s mouth curls into an involuntary sneer; he grabs the link of Rook’s handcuffs in a jittery fist and hauls him up hard. Rook hisses and stumbles to his feet, his face now mere inches away from Jacob’s. He doesn’t flinch away—no matter what, he never fucking does. He meets Jacob’s eyes, even though Jacob can feel his brow and jaw twitching with anger.

“Joseph could never break me,” Jacob says, as even as the edge of a blade.

“Because you think you’re already broken?”

Jacob shoves Rook back hard, and Rook grunts in pain when he lands awkwardly on his side. He then wheezes when Jacob’s boot plants itself into his stomach. He curls in on himself, and Jacob kicks again.

“Fuck!” Rook shouts when Jacob kicks him a third time, this time knocking the breath out of him. Jacob watches with a hollow expression as tears stream down the Deputy’s flushed cheeks.

“The US military has mind games that are a lot more efficient than yours, Dep. You should quit while you’re ahead.” Jacob rolls his shoulders as if to shake some of the tension in his neck away. Rook hisses through his teeth and rolls onto his back, shutting his eyes to the pines and the afternoon sun.

“Mind games?” Rook finally sputters, still holding his ribs and squeezing his eyes closed. “Jesus, Jacob, is that what it is when people are concerned about you?” He coughs. “Bet if some poor sap offered to buy you a drink, you’d throw him over the bar and ask him who he’s workin’ for.”

Jacob blinks down at Rook, almost robotic when he tilts his head and takes a minute step back.

“Concern,” Jacob deadpans, toneless. “We aren’t _friends_ , Deputy.”

Rook finally opens one eye and chuckles half-heartedly.

“Could be, if you’d cut me some slack.”

Jacob has no idea what to say to this. Has no witty retort, and all at once it’s like all the anger’s been drained from his bones. Because he doesn’t know where to go from here, or what he expected to get out of this experiment in the first place, he takes his leave. Behind him, Rook is audibly confused as he clambers to his feet.

“Jacob,” he calls, and Jacob doesn’t look back—resolutely, he ventures deeper into the forest, hoping that it may devour him until Rook’s day is done.

“You’re just gonna leave me cuffed, you asshole?”

Jacob figures that Dep will either make it to Boshaw before sundown and get the cuffs off with a blowtorch, or a cougar will put him out of his misery before he reaches the F.A.N.G. Center.

  
  


  
  


“Could be, if you’d cut me some slack.”

The words ring in Jacob’s ears as he goes to town on a punching bag in the Vet Center gym. His knuckles are wrapped yet sore, sweat drips down the line of his jaw, but it feels good to put his body through its paces. It’s better than sitting in his office stewing over Rook’s bullshit, not getting any work done. He’s going to be stuck in this head space today whether he likes it or not, it seems, so this is for the best.

Friendship. Camaraderie. It’s antithetical to every single thing they have done for months now. All of his conditioning must have knocked some of Rook’s screws loose. Jacob knows what kind of _friends_ Rook has; rowdy hometown morons that flock to him at the Spread Eagle whenever they find the time, he’s sure of it. They’ll sing loudly and drunkenly with the jukebox and throw peanut shells at each other when the jokes are too risque. They’ll take group pictures, all of them throwing their middle fingers at the camera or hugging each other with earnest affection. How the hell does Rook honestly believe that the _Seeds_ could fit into that equation?

John? Maybe. He’s an adaptive chameleon; they wouldn’t buy into his shit after all he’s done, but he’ll hit all the right social beats so they wouldn’t be able to find an excuse to boot him. He’d fit in eventually. Faith? Even more likely, since she isn’t really a Seed to begin with. And they both have those doe eyes. But Joseph? _Jacob_? Snowball’s chance in hell.

Even during Basic or when he was stationed overseas, Jacob never really got close with anyone in the Division. The other boys would play cards and talk about their homes and their girlfriends, and Jacob never had any talent when it came to spinning a yarn. He had no good jokes and he had no relatable anecdotes. He was a listener, and a lurker, hanging out by the farthest edges of campfires and watching life unfold from the bunker corners. He was part of the pack, of course, because that’s how one survives, but he was never anyone’s _pal_.

Jacob sends the punching bag swinging as he leans into his strikes.

Somehow, Rook’s wormed his way into some great delusion—in which Jacob molding him into a killing machine and starving him from days on end in a cage doesn’t completely negate the potential for a truce. Crazy. Jacob’s surprised the Resistance hasn’t noticed how batshit their leader is and thrown him in with all the other Angels that have lost their fucking minds.

Jacob huffs through his nose and smacks the bag with his palm, bringing its swaying to a halt. He shakes sweat out of his hair like a dog and swallows, eyeing the water bottle sitting on the nearby bench.

He can’t humor whatever notions the Deputy has; if they’re ever going to settle this war with proper combat, and if he’s ever going to be successful in taking out Eli and making the Deputy crumble, he should probably tackle this _thing_. He’s going to have to kill the version of himself that the Deputy has conjured up in his mind—if Rook sees Jacob for what he is, then he should have no problem treating him like a proper adversary.

Like meat.

  
  


The conditioning sessions and the acts of cannibalism aren’t putting Rook off, so Jacob’s just going to have to reiterate that he’s not like his Resistance buddies and he’s certainly not like John. He isn’t fun to play with.

“You. We’re going for a walk.”

Rook and Boshaw gape at him from where they’re just now entering their habitual spot for lunch.

“The hell he is!” Boshaw exclaims, spitting out a toothpick and lifting his shotgun. He’s got spark, Jacob will give him that if nothing else. Rook raises a placating hand and his face quirks into another one of those analytical expressions, getting a feel for Jacob’s current potential as a threat.

“Sharky,” he says before speaking to Jacob. “A walk?”

Jacob nods.

“You and me. Don’t worry, Boshaw. I’ll have him back by his curfew,” he smirks. It visibly pisses Boshaw off that his gun and his glare haven’t made Jacob so much as twitch with nerves.

“Yeah, I bet! Just with his toes cut off and some dog tracking chip in his brain--!” Jacob rolls his eyes.

“Sharky,” Rook says again, this time turning to place his hand on top of Boshaw’s shotgun and shaking his head. Their eyes meet and they seem to have a conversation without exchanging any real words. Jacob looks away, uncomfortable. Passively wonders if this is how outsiders feel when they watch him and Joseph press their foreheads together and breathe in.

“Fine. Whatever! If you ain’t back later there’s gonna be a problem!” Boshaw frowns deeply, still glaring from beneath the brim of his ball cap. Rook cackles and makes his way over to Jacob.

“Didn’t you hear? My date said he’d drop me off by curfew!”

Jacob turns on his heel and strides across the abandoned road, his face stiff with heat.

  
  


It doesn’t take long for Rook to break the silence as they walk into the forest.

“Normally you’d knock me out and drag me to wherever we’re going,” he says casually from where he’s walking a bit behind Jacob. Jacob isn’t concerned about having his back to Rook; for all his rival’s casual bravado, he’s still the one with more power, the one in charge here—Rook knows it. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it out loud. Jacob feels the weight of his music box rubbing against his leg in his pocket.

“Thought I’d mix it up a little,” Jacob grunts. He thought Rook was lying yesterday when he said he’d come with Jacob so long as he asked nicely. Small wonders. Although Rook doesn’t lie about much at all, the minute Jacob takes that for granted is the minute he’ll get fucked over.

“Well I doubt you care, but I much prefer this approach.”

“You’re right, I don’t care.”

They continue to walk, mostly uphill as the mountains welcome them into their lowest slopes. The scent of pine sap is heavy as the trees crackle and groan in the breeze’s chill. Autumn would begin to bleed into the air were it not for Jacob being stuck in time; the weather doesn’t change like this, much less the seasons. He’s tried to stop being peeved about it since there’s no clear cause, no singular thing to pile all of the blame onto.

Twenty minutes or so pass them by, and it’s oddly peaceful. Rook, whose big mouth normally rivals John’s, is quiet. Maybe he knows when to take a hint and not speak just to fill space.

The two finally curve up onto a jutting ridge with fairly even ground. It’s not too unlike the mountainside on which they normally settle things—just outside Eli’s bunker. It’s ironic and disappointing, Jacob thinks, to finally know where that prick’s home base is while being unable to _do_ anything about it. The plan itself also exists to break Rook, and unless he can kill two birds with one stone, there’s no point in trying a different sort of bunker raid.

“I never get tired of how beautiful this place is.”

The words shake Jacob from his reverie; somehow he didn’t notice, but Rook brushed his way past him and stalked out onto the ridge. The wind shifts his dark shock of hair, rustles the jacket that’s surely seen better days. Jacob knows he’s staring but for some reason his eyes are fixed.

“Like you guys, I’m a bit of a Southern boy. Never really saw mountains until I moved out here. And the air is so crisp, it just tastes different.” There’s a lull, then he speaks again. “We’re blowing this place to pieces and it hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Jacob steps up beside the Deputy, within arm’s reach, as if one of them couldn’t choose to push the other off the ledge at any moment. This in and of itself, Jacob realizes, is a truce. And that’s not the point he wanted to make today.

They aren’t terribly high up; they can’t see half the county from here or anything, but Jacob’s territory is mostly in view. Small lines of smoke drift into the sky from random locations across the Whitetails; burning houses or cars, maybe even sabotaged supply trucks. One side devouring the other’s resources in a game of tug-of-war that may not have an end in sight.

“Why’d you bring me out here? I didn’t think you wanted me dead,” says Rook. He’s not wrong—Jacob needs him alive in order to keep Joseph’s plans in line, but hearing him say it like that is still jarring. Like he knows that this isn’t personal for Jacob. It’s just business, just the way things are.

“Best place for talking is neutral ground,” Jacob waves a hand at the valley below. “Nowhere down there is without bias.”

“Is the woods so neutral?” Rook asks, turning his head to look at Jacob in full. “You look really comfortable here. You’re in your element,” Rook chuckles, “I’m no Boy Scout, can’t even get a fire going without a lighter.”

“Do you hunt?” Jacob asks. For some reason. As if they’re companions. Rook snorts.

“I hunt your people nowadays, I suppose. But game? No, I’ve never taken interest.”

“It’s not so different,” says Jacob, feeling the ghost of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth, thinking back on his days in the desert, tracking enemies. “Like animals, people get clumsy when they’re scared, makes them easier to track.”

“Like animals, people just want to get home safely,” Rook says, not icily, but his tone is not as soft as it was moments ago. Jacob doesn’t look at him but he nods to the point.

“See, that’s how we differ, Rook. I’ve never been afforded the luxury of your outlook, and I’m past the point of being able to adopt it. You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. You’re never going to be able to get me to see the people in this county as anything other than meat. I know your plans of late involve us all holding hands, so I’m here to tell you that you shouldn’t bother.” Jacob finishes, not smug but somewhat satisfied. Rook eventually has to get a clue.

“That’s not the issue and you know it,” Rook says with his usual conviction. Jacob notes his fists tightening down at his sides and the hooked scar over his nose gathering lines of steely distaste. “Most of the people down there don’t see _themselves_ as meat, so it’s not hard to convince them to lay down their arms so that they can _live_. You’re the one that thinks you’re meat, Jacob, and I think it makes you feel better when you can put everyone else in the same miserable boat. But you can’t, because they aren’t, and before I can get people to _hold hands_ , I need to convince you that you’re not meat, either.”

“I am meat,” Jacob says plainly, ignoring the twitching of his eye, the curl of his fingers around his wrist where his hands are locked behind his back, as if he’s still standing in line at Basic. Everyone is meat, he and Rook aren’t special.

“If you were,” Rook reaches forward with a hand before snapping it back to grab at his jacket hem instead, thinking better of touching Jacob. Jacob’s breath hitches in a way that only he notices. “If you were, you wouldn’t have brought me here today.”

Jacob’s jaw is locked tightly, his gaze fixated on the faint glimmer of the Henbane in the distance. A moment ticks by. The music box is right there—it feels like it weighs fifty pounds in his pocket. He could end this conversation, albeit probably at the cost of his health. Rook would target the nearest breathing organism.

He could push Rook over the rocky edge. To restart the day, to get rid of the claustrophobic clutch in his lungs.

“Joseph wouldn’t have ordered you to do this with me,” Rook speaks, breathy, as if he’s coming to terms with everything that implies. “Nobody would have. You _chose_ to take me here—to what? Convince me you’re meat?”

Jacob cannot afford to look at someone in the face while they speak like this.

“That doesn’t sound like something meat would do.”

For the second day in a row, Jacob is stunned into silence, backed into a corner inside his own head. It’s too much free thought to handle, with a voice that doesn’t sound like it belongs to his Commander, or Joseph, or his father, or God. He should ignore it—for all intents and purposes he should fucking ignore it. He should stop all of this, because while he doesn’t believe in Joseph’s sermons, it feels borderline blasphemous. He somehow feels scolded, and he hasn’t felt that way since he was a child, so it puts a knot in his gut.

He’s intrigued in some queer way. Even though the Deputy is wrong and Jacob’s supposed to be correcting his ideas (grinding them into the dirt, into nothing, with his boot), he wants to hear more. For research, he tells himself. Or for a good laugh. It’s just so foreign to have someone tell him what he _isn’t_ after decades of the world telling him what he _is_.

  
  


He and the Deputy quietly part ways after the conversation comes to an end. They split off in different directions, and Rook doesn’t make it into something awkward. He offers Jacob a polite, upward twitch of his mouth and a wave of his hand. Jacob nods once. It doesn’t matter what impression Rook got from all of this, because he won’t remember any of it in the morning.

But unfortunately for Jacob, he can’t forget. For him, the Deputy’s mantra begins to linger, trying to coax or condition him with an entirely new sensation, one that makes Jacob’s hands clammy. It threatens to spread into the cracks of his foundation, like water seeping into a boulder and ruining it entirely. He hates to admit it because it makes him feel flawed and wavering, but he needs fortification. He should speak to Joseph and get his bearings; allow his brother to guide him properly and remind him of their mission.

  
  


Just one more day, he decides, and tries not to think about how John would call that indulgent, not strategic. Just one more day like this and then he’ll go to Joseph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!! I hope this chapter is an okay gift for you guys :3c 
> 
> Sorry for how late this update is, I got wrapped up with the holidays and I've lacked the attention span to sit down and type this up!! I hope you're all staying as safe and healthy as you can be. I've read all of your comments, and I'm so appreciative; they're all so sweet and motivational <3 I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and hopefully the next one will be up faster than this one was orz


	11. Chapter 11

The talk with Joseph doesn't come. A day passes, then another day, then another. Every morning, Jacob heads out to the construction yard and waits for Rook and Boshaw to arrive, and even though Boshaw protests, Rook never declines Jacob’s vague, clipped invitations. It’s laughably easy to get the leader of the Resistance alone, regardless of how many times Jacob has beaten, stabbed, or shot at him. All it takes is some decent manners.

Rook is unique company. Jacob tries not to let on that he’s just as confused about their forest strolls as Rook is, and when Rook inevitably asks about what it is they’re doing, Jacob avoids the question and continues his march with no destination in mind. Jacob has no excuse for his impulsive decisions—he covers the idle time up with the concept of gathering more information or data, but he’s long since had the impression that Rook is blameless and clueless as far as the clock is concerned. There is no secret plot, no sinister poison used to twist Jacob’s mind—just some dope that smiles wanly at Jacob every time he works up the nerve to glance back at him over his shoulder as they hike.

If Jacob thinks too hard about his lack of professionalism or discipline, his chemical scars become agitated, like he’s being burned all over again.

“--I know you don’t think my lot are very funny, but I bet you would’ve laughed if you’d seen Adelaide’s face when we hauled our sorry asses onto the pier. We never should’ve snagged her boat in the first place, but we were so drunk, we thought we’d be able to get it back before sun up, even though you could hear its engine damn near ‘cross the marina. She was angrier than half the wolverines I’ve seen out here. I thought she was gonna rip Hurk’s ear off.”

Typically Rook devolves into an anecdote after the initial, long stretch of silence that starts off with their odd journeys. He spends a while observing Jacob from behind, wanting to prod at him with questions but not wanting to slice into their tentative peace. After a while he probably decides, ‘fuck it,’ and tries to get a reaction out of Jacob, even if it’s mild or uninterested.

“Got a question,” Jacob says, surprising himself, as he wasn’t sure that he’d ever bring this up.

Leaves and twigs snap and snag beneath their boots. Jacob steps broadly around a thatch of poison oak and he doesn’t bother telling Rook what it is. He’ll either get a rash or he’ll have been in Hope long enough to know what the fuck it looks like. He mentioned being a Southern boy a few days back. Surely he knows.

“Okay?” Rook ventures. When Jacob looks back at him, Rook’s brow creases and he waves a hand with a ‘go ahead’ gesture. Jacob works his jaw, swallows quietly, narrows his eyes at the thinning trees ahead. Some have been gouged with antlers, some male making its rounds in the past few days. Jacob almost smirks at the idea of teaching Rook how to hunt a doe against his will, but they’re stomping around too loudly to come into contact with one right now anyway.

“Pratt divulged some information recently—or rather, told me a story that’s not as _fun_ as yours.”

“About what?” Rook asks, somewhat wary as he adjusts the weight of his backpack. A vein in his forearm shifts. Jacob turns his eyes away again, lifting his head with an air of aloofness.

“You. And some stint you had during a domestic call—you were with, what’s her name...Hudson? Way I hear it, you’re not always such a cheery neighborhood deputy. Of course, I already knew that. I’ve seen what you can do with just one pistol. But it’s interesting to me that one of your little buddies got a glimpse of the _animal_ beneath before anybody in the Project did. I guess people like us are _born_ with our teeth, yeah?”

“Where are you going with this?” Dep asks with a steely tone. Jacob can feel the glare on the back of his neck, and oh, that’s _exactly_ what he’s talking about. The _thing_ that Rook is underneath the badge and the Superman attitude.

The curiosity has been nagging at Jacob, chewing at the back of his tongue ever since Pratt told him about that incident. For some reason he wants to know, wants to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

“Apparently Hudson saw you tell that deadbeat something after you beat him to a pulp. I want to know what it is you said.”

This is something that Rook’s friends and coworkers don’t know about—if Rook tells Jacob, it’d be their special little secret. Albeit not one that Rook divulged willingly, but it might scratch some unnamed itch of Jacob’s. To have it, to possess it.

“I don’t remember,” Rook says too easily for it to be true. Jacob stops in his tracks and turns, his arm brushing away an errant tree branch. A pine cone falls somewhere in their vicinity; Jacob hears it hit a few branches on the way down. It hits the ground after a few seconds, punctuating Rook’s resounding silence like a period. Jacob shows his teeth in a faux-friendly grin.

“Come on, what harm would it do you to share? I won’t tell a soul.”

Rook’s face twists like he’s taken offense and he shakes his head. He crosses his arms over his chest, probably hoping for it to come off as a show of determination, but Jacob notices all of his little mammalian tells and twitches, and he sees it as the defensive gesture it really is.

“Is this a new conditioning exercise? How’s that bullshit gonna help the Project? It’s not like it’s worth beating it out of me.” Rook is so broad, it would look silly if he hunched his shoulders like John does when he doesn’t want to do as he’s told. It’s a good thing he doesn’t hunch. But God, it looks like he wants to.

“I can’t beat info out of you. Well, I probably could, but it’d take more time than I have.” Knowing Jacob’s current luck, Rook would bleed out or go into shock at sunset in spite of any attempts to prevent him from kicking the bucket.

“How about this,” Jacob offers, “you tell me, and I’ll answer a question of yours. Free of charge.” It’s not like Rook will remember any info Jacob gives him anyway. Jacob raises his hands as a sign of good will, confident that his recent, underlying tension doesn’t show in his performance.

“Any question,” Rook insists flatly. “You answer it.”

“Deal.”

Rook’s jaw works back and forth a bit, he cuts a glare to the side like a nearby bird called him a dirty name. Jacob can practically see the gears turning in his head before he finally huffs out a reluctant breath.

“I told that guy…I told him that if he didn’t leave town, he’d never get rid of me. I told him that he would never feel safe. That eventually he’d fall in the shower or stumble into traffic, and everyone would mourn such a clumsy accident.” Rook mines his courage from some new vein and drags his eyes up to meet Jacob’s gaze. Jacob whistles lowly, placing a hand on his hip.

“You meant it,” Jacob says. It’s as plain as the sounds and smells of a rainy day. He’s not surprised by this, because it’s what he’s told Rook all along; he’s no hero. 

“I don’t know what came over me,” Rook says, eyes not giving away any particular emotion, guilt and nerves no longer residing there.

“I do. Instinct. Strength. That’s good enough for me—in fact, you just proved my point, Dep. A prime example of what I’ve been preaching all this time.”

“I didn’t say those things so I could be an alpha male, Jacob. I said them to protect a child. Once upon a time, you could probably relate to that.”

Unbidden, hazy images of flames climbing into a late-night sky appear in Jacob’s mind. The smell of gasoline, the texture of John’s small hand tightening around his fingers. Joseph’s glassy eyes staring up at him without judgment. Jacob blinks.

“Your turn,” Jacob grunts, “ask away.”

Rook’s arms unfold and he grabs the straps of his backpack instead, holding them. He shifts his weight to his dominant leg. He doesn’t take very long to think of something, so Jacob assumes that he’s had some curiosity bothering the back of his mind lately, too.

“Were you sad when you found out about your niece?”

Jacob’s axis tilts, his stomach turns and a bout of nausea strikes down from his brain to his feet. Another memory assaults him before he can will it away.

The three of them sat in John’s living room, the warmth of the fireplace making Joseph’s glasses glow. John’s curiosity making his leg bounce in place. Joseph’s calm, resigned features not giving away much save for a pinch of sorrow beneath his eyes. He’d told them both of a confession—told them that they needed to know something important before they began their long, difficult journey to the gates of Eden. That they should know what drove Joseph to attempt all of this, and what lengths he would go to in order to build their paradise.

“I have a daughter,” he said, and the words pulled Jacob to sit at full height. He remembers with perfect clarity—John’s wide eyes and beaming face, his hands gripping his knees with genuine optimism.

And in mere seconds, hundreds of flashes of potential appeared before Jacob’s eyes. He could see it; John tenderly cradling something with hands that were normally so corrupt and wrathful. His baby brother spoiling some young girl rotten, dressing her in the latest fashions despite Joseph’s disinterest in physical vanity and capital. He could see her with thin, glossy brown hair and a shrewd face and a down-turned nose, just like her father’s. Could see her with bare feet striding in the greenest grasses of Montana wilds, could see her with her head bowed in prayer, could see her with a bow clutched in hand with a quiver on her back.

“I am sorry to cause you any pain you may feel,” Joseph said, yanking Jacob out of his reverie as if he’d been hauled out of a tub of ice, “but she is no longer with us, physically.”

Jacob’s immediate concern had been John, his eyes darting over to watch as his brother’s face fell from rapt enthusiasm to abject grief. His eyes began to gloss over immediately, and Jacob’s fists tightened in his lap as he fought the urge to get up and touch him.

“But do not despair, my brothers. She remains with me in my mind’s eye. I know she would have been glad, and beyond blessed, to have you both as her family.”

“How? How did she…?” John had asked, strangled and raw.

And Joseph could not avoid telling them _how_ , so he made no attempt to. He told them openly, fairly, there at John’s hearth. And once he was finished, John fled; his armchair’s legs left gouges in the floorboards from how strongly he lunged. He hurried upstairs, and Jacob didn’t need to hear sickened coughing and breaking glass in order to know what was occurring. Joseph remained unfazed, though John’s reaction probably left some subconscious impression on him.

When Jacob slowly turned his head back to his brother—his dearest brother, his guide, his anchor—Joseph merely blinked at him.

“Are you angry?” He asked. Jacob shook his head.

“No.”

Joseph did not ask if he was sad.

Jacob feels sturdy and he commends himself for schooling his features while the Deputy waits for an answer. He could lie; it’s not like Rook will remember this. And it’s an invasive question, one perhaps meant to make Jacob feel shameful or humiliated or pissed off. But surprisingly Jacob feels none of those things. His fists don’t curl in anger and he feels no urge to pull out his rifle. It feels almost freeing to not have to act in any particular way in order to compensate for his brothers’ emotions and needs. It’s a bit of a low blow, and a weird one to boot, but Jacob started this and it’d be childish of him to refute Rook.

“Yes,” Jacob finally answers, breathing out the word as if he’d been holding it in for a year now—and maybe he had.

Surely there’s more to be said; Jacob’s mouth parts even though he doesn’t owe Rook anything else, but suddenly Rook’s expression shifts from something thoughtful to something anxious. He sucks in a breath between his teeth and quietly removes his backpack. He starts to unhook his MP40, and the only thing keeping Jacob from seeing it as a threat is the telltale huff of a bear.

“Take it easy,” Rook breathes, “it’s a Judge.” As soon as he speaks, Jacob smells the Bliss coming off the creature in fucking waves. Jacob’s lip curls with distaste; that shit shouldn’t even be in his territory beyond what they use on the wolves. How a bear got into a supply cache is lost on him. This fucking county.

Branches snap behind Jacob, and he slowly turns his head to try and get a look over his shoulder. More offended grunting comes from the bear.

“Grizzly?” Jacob whispers.

“Black,” Rook licks his lips and eases his pack to the ground. The clicking preparation of his gun sets off more aggressive motions from the bear—it picks up its pace and circles broadly to Jacob’s left. It not being a grizzly is only a small blessing. This time of year it shouldn’t weigh more than a couple hundred pounds, but the Bliss is going to keep its engine running even if they take out its eyes or legs.

As Jacob pulls his rifle’s strap over his shoulder, he considers grabbing the music box. An entranced Deputy would aid this situation by a broad margin, but Jacob can’t guarantee that Rook’s wrath wouldn’t turn on him, even if the bear were defeated. No, they’ll have to--

“Jacob!”

The bear charges, and the amount of Bliss in its saliva makes Jacob’s eyes water and itch. Both he and Rook fire their weapons. Jacob’s rifle is slow, but it packs enough of a punch to make the bear’s head shake. Sure and confident, Jacob sidesteps in an arc as he prepares another shot. Rook’s submachine gun peppers the bear’s front, but he only manages a couple seconds’ worth of fire before he has to swivel around a tree trunk, the bear tackling it with all its weight and shredding at the bark with its claws.

Jacob inches behind another tree for cover and shoots the bear again from behind, nailing it in a hind leg, but it’s like burying a bullet in rubber. It doesn’t do nearly enough. Rook uses the broad pine to his advantage; when he fires from one side and the bear swipes for him, its width buys him a few seconds to sprint behind another tree.

Another shot cracks from Jacob’s gun, and he doesn’t miss no matter how quickly the bear moves—he anticipates the furious head shakes and the confused turns that mimic rabidness. That shot catches the bear in the jaw and it lets out a guttural noise, but it won’t be dismayed. It doesn’t give Rook any breathing room, no stray seconds to litter it with more bullets. It swipes again and Rook jumps, grabbing hold of an overhead tree branch and pulling himself up onto a low limb. It can barely even be considered a deterrent, as neither climbing nor running can shake a predator like this.

The bear’s claws swipe at Rook’s leg as he hauls himself onto another limb. His pants leg and skin are torn down in shreds and he yells in pain. Before he can think better of it—before he can think about how letting the bear kill Rook would lower the curtains on this entire scene—Jacob whistles sharply and fires at again. This shot clips a perfect hole through the bear’s ear, and it whips its head around before charging in Jacob’s direction.

“Jacob!” Rook exclaims. Jacob backs up steadily and fires again. He must nail the bear in the mouth somehow, but it’s moving too quickly to tell and it still doesn’t give a shit either way. Jacob curses under his breath and dives to the side, rolling to his knees with age-old practice. It’s just fucking nothing like fighting people, not even Angels. The sheer amount of muscle paired with the Bliss turns this into an almost useless affair.

For a brief second, panic lances through Jacob, as he doesn’t know what will happen if he dies today instead of Rook. That’s never happened before. His rifle clicks empty and the zipper on his thigh’s ammo pack is stuck on its own fabric. The bear rears up on its hind legs and Jacob clambers back, desperately pushing up onto his feet until his back hits another tree trunk.

Relief comes in the form of Rook firing again, this time not letting up until his clip is over with. He visibly staggers in the middle of the clearing, his wounded leg barely handling any weight at all. His pants are saturated entirely with blood. Rook drops to one knee and tears his backpack open.

Jacob’s eyes widen with horror when the bear’s attention shifts again and it barrels for Rook with no remorse. Without thinking better of it, Jacob pursues it, yanking his Bowie knife from his hip and throwing himself down beside Rook as if sliding home to a baseball plate.

The bear pins Rook completely with its weight and its kill pattern begins, grabbing Rook’s torso in its mouth and shaking furiously. The scream that Rook lets out reminds Jacob of echoes from Iraq. He grits his teeth and throws his weight into the bear’s side, sinking his knife into the deep muscle of its throat. The bear sounds out in pain and thrashes, turning to grab Jacob's jacket and toss him to the side.

Jacob grunts as he lands and rolls, only to find the bear on top of him in the next second. Blood pours down over his clothes by the pint. His slippery hands attempt to grab hold of the knife still lodged in the bear’s neck. He pushes hard at the handle, causing the blade to drag upward and open the wound further. Bloodied saliva splatters across Jacob’s face and the bear’s jaws snap too close to his nose for comfort. The Bliss and the overall predator odor make him wheeze.

“Fuck!” Rook shouts, appearing out of thin air with his knees at Jacob’s side. He jabs his own knife into the bear’s throat, pulls it out with great effort, and plunges it in again. Over and over, stabbing. They both contribute, but even as the bear loses blood and its energy wanes, it refuses to fall limp. Its front paws knock Rook back and as it pushes its weight down, Jacob hears the thick snapping of ribs.

Rook wails again and Jacob pants through the noise, feeling as though he may vomit. With the dregs of his adrenaline, Jacob helps Rook one more time, driving his knife even deeper into the bear and coughing when his forearm sinks into the wet, open meat of its wound. The bear groans one more time, long and deep, its heart finally giving way and no longer able to keep the body going.

It collapses, its weight luckily dipping to the side instead of landing entirely on Rook. Its final breaths rattle quietly, but Jacob’s eyes are fixed on Rook, who gulps for air while he searches for something.

That something seems to be Jacob—when their eyes meet, Rook visibly relaxes and gains some sense of clarity. Jacob crawls forward and pulls Rook away from the bear’s paws as gently as he’s able. Rook hisses, tears streaming down his face against his will.

“Oh my God,” Rook moans, blinking hard and turning his head away from the overhead sunlight. “You—you alright?” He asks, and Jacob almost laughs, because the Deputy’s torso is entirely beyond repair.

“You must be joking,” is all Jacob can think to say. He swallows, one hand tentatively hovering over Rook’s mangled ribs as if putting pressure on anything would help stop the bleeding.

“You hurt?” Rook whimpers out of pain, not woe-is-me misery. Jacob’s seen this before, too many times to count, and he can tell that Rook doesn’t have any time at all. Jacob will, presumably, be waking up in his bedroom any second now, at 6:15 in the morning.

“I’m not hurt,” says Jacob, though he owes the Deputy nothing. But it’s the same as it used to be—telling his brothers in arms whatever they wanted to hear before they were gone, even if it wasn't true or even if it was just nonsense. It was just the respectable thing to do if they fought with pride and made a sacrifice for the pack.

Isn’t that what the Deputy is? A sacrifice? Meat? A toy soldier? Hasn’t Jacob shot him a dozen times already, hoping to put an end to their ritualistic tango? Isn’t Jacob the one that’s wanted him dead all this time, only to string him along because that’s what Joseph thought was best?

Except that hasn’t been true—not really. Not since the Deputy set foot on Whitetail turf and began to issue challenges that Jacob couldn’t refuse, not long after he entered Joseph’s church and locked handcuffs around his brother’s wrists. Rook is special even though Jacob’s spent so much time telling him otherwise. He’s a good contender, he’s worth watching.

“This was not your purpose,” Jacob mutters, feeling his eyes narrow and his mouth tighten.

“I know my purpose,” Rook breathes, barely audible. Jacob’s frown deepens and he doesn’t realize he's touching the Deputy’s face until he pulls his hand away and sees the bloody print it leaves behind.

  
  


The next time Jacob blinks, he’s greeted by his bedroom. He swallows harshly. He can still feel the phantom heft of the Deputy half-pulled onto his lap. Can still smell the bear’s fur and the sweat dotting his own forehead.

Jacob swings his legs over the side of the bed and staggers when he tries to make for the bathroom. He sways, unsure, and presses his hand to his forehead. He feels feverish, but he’s not about to vomit. The feeling that overtakes him doesn’t feel like a panic attack, and his ears don’t ring with old noises from the desert. He just feels adrift in a way he hasn’t known since he was doomed to rotating homeless shelters.

Joseph was the one to rescue him—to throw him a life preserver. This confirms that he’s put it off for too long now; he does in fact need Joseph’s council.

  
  


Joseph is a gracious figure. He’s gentle yet commanding, soft-spoken yet determined. His posture is always sure and steady. Even now, with just the two of them present, he radiates a calming sensation that Jacob can only bask in. Though Jacob is his elder and his guardian, his compass points to his wiser brother in all things.

“You seem unwell, brother, though I don’t want to make assumptions. I’d have you tell me if I can help ease your burdens in some way.” Joseph’s voice is like a soothing balm. Jacob shuts his eyes and inhales deeply.

They’re on Joseph’s back porch—at his house not far from the church. It’s a sparse little thing that Joseph mostly uses for resting and times of contemplation. There are few decorations aside from framed photos of his siblings and proud moments of Eden’s Gate. Otherwise the place feels almost lonely. Barren. Not unlike Jacob's quarters back at the Vet Center.

Jacob sits in a chair and Joseph stands, his hands resting on the porch railing, his rosary swaying lazily from his wrist. Jacob chose the back porch because the sun is high on the other side of the house and the trees here provide a good amount of shade. Joseph’s tinted glasses aren’t much of an aesthetic choice. He doesn’t speak much of it, but his eyes are sensitive and he’s prone to intense headaches. Jacob sometimes has to fight the urge to bring an umbrella with him when they have to travel on hot summer days.

“I know it’s not my place to worry, and I don’t want you to question my faith in you, but I have reasons to believe that my focus—my purpose—is compromised somehow.” Jacob isn’t intimidated by Joseph’s judgments in the way that John is, he doesn’t shrink in the face of them. But he does feel somewhat ashamed; he’s supposed to be bedrock, unwavering. He isn't supposed to ask questions. He only hopes that Joseph doesn’t find some problem here that Jacob is unaware of.

“Jacob,” Joseph offers a gentle smile and turns to face him fully, “doubt is a natural thing. It washes over the best of us; our minds are not always our friends. What matters is how we _combat_ that doubt. Has something happened to cause this anxiety?”

Jacob frowns down at his hands and flexes his fingers. He sighs.

“You tell John that he has to love our enemies—the sinners, the _weak_. Then you threaten him with damnation when he can’t love them. But I don’t love them at _all_ , Joseph. Am I so different from him? I can’t call Eden paradise if our brother isn’t there, he’s--”

Jacob blinks when he finds that Joseph is suddenly kneeling on one knee before him. Joseph takes Jacob’s hands in both of his and rubs his thumbs gently over the raised scars that warp across Jacob’s knuckles. Joseph gives a thin sigh and shakes his head minutely.

“John needs a firmer hand than you do, brother. His mind is roaring water and it must be funneled and directed accordingly. You do not worry me as he does, you do not need scolding. As for the other matter,” Joseph dips his head in consideration, “John’s job is to cleanse people. Yours is to _train_ them. You need not love our people in the way that he should. You do _good_ work, Jacob, necessary work. Do not fret about whether or not you two will be welcome in the garden.”

Jacob leans forward and rests his forehead against Joseph’s in their usual, tender gesture. He can practically hear Joseph smile. He almost smiles in return.

“But do you _want_ me to love them?” Jacob asks. He thinks of how many people—soldiers—have died under his regimen at the Vet Center. How many people have been given scraps of meat as their only rations, and how many bodies have been left to rot in abandoned warehouses after failed trials. “I doubt I know how.”

Jacob opens his eyes and finds himself staring down at the tattoo on Joseph’s forearm. The one of her.

“What was it like to feel that way? About her, I mean. If it frustrates you, forget I asked,” he says, not cowed by the potential of a mood swing but rather respectful of his brother’s past. Joseph pulls away slowly and gives an affectionate look to his tattoo.

“The entire world used and mistreated me, but then there she was; my cheerleader. It was overwhelming at times, knowing that she held me in such high regard. It took some time to stop feeling as though I was one disappointing screw-up away from losing her for good. Loving her was exciting, and no matter how cold it got in our apartment, that love kept me warm, here,” Joseph places his palm on his chest. His smile doesn’t waver.

“Loving her was never a sin, it was never a mistake. I knew that choosing her every day was the _right_ choice, and I was _lucky_ that the Voice guided me to my brothers and Eden’s Gate after I lost her. If it didn’t, I don’t know where I would be.”

Jacob’s not a poet and he’s not a romantic, so he has nothing useful to say to his brother’s lyricism. It makes him feel foolish to contemplate jealousy or linger on the fact that he can’t dig up any memories that are similar to Joseph’s. There is nothing from Iraq or jail that resembles what Joe is talking about. He briefly wonders if John or Faith have ever felt that way about anyone. He wonders if maybe Joseph is the luckiest out of all of them—to have had both the Voice and a lover.

“I’m glad you had her,” Jacob says honestly. He’s grateful for anything that acted as a buoy for Joe while they were all separated. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like that.” Aside from his brothers, of course, but that goes without saying. Joseph knows. Joseph tilts his head and blinks up at Jacob from behind his glasses.

“You may one day, Jacob, don’t give up on that idea if it’s something that could motivate you. Paradise could give you someone to cherish—I _want_ that for you. You truly deserve it.” Jacob’s brows pinch in thought. His heart stammers with nerves all of a sudden and he can’t keep his mouth from moving even though his words may cause suspicion in Joseph. And even though he himself doesn’t understand what causes them to form.

“What if that person is resistant? What if he is _strong_ but--”

Joseph and Jacob’s eyes widen at the same time. Horror boils in Jacob’s gut but confusion pushes it aside when Joseph’s smile widens and he rises to his feet.

“Jacob, this is what’s caused you to have doubts! And you’ve proven yourself wrong; you _can_ love them, our flock. And if this person sees the truth of you then he will come to understand. Your causes will unite, and he will join us in paradise, I’m certain of this. I’ll even lend you my prayers. Everything will work out in the end, Jacob. We’ve worked so hard to prepare for the Collapse, and we’ll all reap the benefits. It is God’s plan.” 

Jacob stands up and struggles to find the words to correct Joseph or salvage the conversation. Joseph jumped to conclusions and ran off with them; he’d be singing a different tune if he knew what he was actually implying. The Deputy. The enemy—Joseph’s fork-tongued sinner. Joseph has no fucking clue what he’s talking about.

But it’s Jacob’s fault that Joseph’s making assumptions. He slipped up and uncovered something that Jacob was hoping would remain buried completely. Something that he doesn’t want to look in the eye, even now. It’s wrong and antithetical, and nothing good could possibly come from it. This thing that he still can’t give a name to. But Jacob can’t be certain that what’s occurring with the Deputy is even the kind of earnest salvation that Joseph is talking about. How _can_ he be certain? He’s out of his depth here.

Jacob folds his hands behind his back and ignores the fact that his palms are sweating. He’s stuck in this capsule with no stakes or consequences. And he’s the only one in the fucking county that remembers anything anymore. And if his thoughts stray too quickly, he can still see the Deputy’s ribs exposed and concave beyond his own shaking hand.

So he has to do something, he has to make a decision. Should he ignore all of this? Push it aside and never bring it up again? Should he discontinue his meetings with the Deputy and go back to the conditioning—attempt to kill Eli over and over again until it _finally_ works? The usual paperwork and the same exact morning reports from Pratt’s clipboard.

The way Jupiter looks at him from behind the bars of a cage.

These are all things that he should do; the proper, disciplined actions of a soldier. Of someone that Joseph trusts to whip the Project into shape and crush the Resistance in his fist. If Jacob is to be these things—if he is meat—then there’s really no argument to be had.

Unfortunately for Joseph, Rook’s words have become addictive, and Jacob could stand to hear them again even if they are wrong. Just one more time, at least.

“ _You are not meat.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one week, omg!! I guess I am making up for the long break--I became super motivated yesterday and had to get Jacob closer to his finale! ((joseph's old feelings paralleling jake's current ones! jake calling rook by his first name for the first time! it's all coming together, fellas!!))
> 
> Please let me know what you think; comments make my day and I really appreciate them! Your kudos mean a lot to me, too ;A; Thank you so much for reading thus far, I hope you enjoy reading it because I Really love writing this story. tysm tysm wuw


End file.
